


The Hardest Lesson

by cynical21



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:58:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2096604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynical21/pseuds/cynical21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen-aged Obi-Wan learns about the sweetness and the pain of his first love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hardest Lesson

**Author's Note:**

> As with everything I write, be warned: here be dragons.

The Hardest Lesson

 

********************************************* 

The city of Perimia, poised at the tip of the eastern peninsula of the northernmost continent of the spectacularly lovely, jewel-toned planet of Kyri, was girded on three sides by the glittering expanse of the Imbrilla Sea. It was a city of washed pastels, and it loved the light, consisting of buildings designed to capture every available nuance of radiance and spin it into a veritable tapestry of variegated luminescence. Thus, within every structure, the floors, composed mostly of pale polished stone, were traced with intricate patterns of light and gradations of color that soothed the eyes and invited contemplative thought. 

Obi-Wan Kenobi thought it easily the most beautiful city he had ever seen and reflected, with some small degree of smugness, that he had certainly seen more than his share during the course of his seventeen cycles. 

A brief glance at his Master's serene profile was sufficient to cause the padawan to flush slightly, in the realization that his tiny flare of hubris had been both understood and dismissed as unworthy of notice. 

It was, nevertheless, a very beautiful world, and it seemed hardly conceivable that such a lovely setting could be the scene of such vile political intrigue that the lives of the royal family - and particularly that of the young heir to the throne - were considered sufficiently threatened to justify the presence of Jedi among the royal entourage for the duration of the formal celebrations leading up to the coronation. 

Master Qui-Gon Jinn and his padawan learner had arrived on Kyri ten days earlier, almost a full week before the actual opening of the celebrations, and had been extremely diligent in their preparations, working with Kyrian security personnel to assure that the transfer of royal power, from grandmother to granddaughter as decreed by both tradition and Kyrian law, would proceed smoothly and without incident. 

And while the Master had trained the queen's bodyguards in methods known ordinarily only to the Jedi, the apprentice had worked with undercover agents who would move among the crowds, to help them to develop clandestine skills that would enable them to anticipate problems before they actually arose, and to become virtually invisible in their roles as observers. 

Qui-Gon - never a man of many words - had watched in silence as his padawan spoke with the young men and women who had volunteered for this duty and administered gentle correction in their methodology where it was justified. Words, after all, were mostly superfluous between the Jedi team, as the training link that joined their minds almost sang with the Master's approval. 

Obi-Wan - ever sensitive to his Master's mood - almost glowed with contentment. 

At the end of long days of fierce labor, Qui-Gon tended to take his ease in meditation in the small garden outside their shared quarters, while Obi-Wan indulged his fondness for the ocean, and for the local sport known as skimming, involving a small, square footboard, a canvas harness attached to a winglike, ribbed structure, and some very large breakers. 

The coronation celebration would begin in earnest today, and, luckily, the apprentice had paid for his new passion with nothing more serious than arms scraped raw from intimate contact with a bed of sand, and a spectacular set of bruises across his torso, from an awkward tumble exacerbated by the unforgiving quality of stones embedded in a small breakwater. Thus, he was entirely capable of performing his duties with his customary level of efficiency, for which his Master was suitably grateful. It was not difficult to recall occasions when Obi-Wan's easily engaged enthusiasms had produced less desirable results and more extreme damage. 

On this occasion, Qui-Gon had limited his comments to raised eyebrows, and a discreet but judicious application of Force healing energy, acknowledged by his padawan with a grateful smile. 

The two waited now in respectful silence, in the beautiful, light-filled chamber where formal audiences were held, with the Queen's chief of security standing by to present them finally to the reigning monarch and her successor. It had been fortunate, from a security standpoint, that the formal protocol for the transfer of power required a ten-day period of isolation and solitude for both the retiring and incoming rulers, and the two women - Queen Nemis and Princess Trell - had been cloistered in a secure, completely anonymous location for the interim. Thus, the task of securing their safety had been virtual child's play, until now, and there had been no occasion for the Jedi to actually come face to face with their royal charges. 

Today, thought the young apprentice, the fun begins. 

Lord Kaffia, most trusted of Her Majesty's kinsmen and an old friend of both the Jedi in general and Qui-Gon in particular, was impressive and very elegant in the dark uniform that identified him as Master of the Royal Guards, and he leaned over to whisper something in Qui-Gon's ear, just as the peel of hundreds of bright, tiny, very melodic bells rose to fill the palace with a lovely air. 

Obi-Wan, who - like the perfect padawan he always strove to be - was standing beside and slightly behind his Master, felt a strange trace of amusement through the training bond, as both Kaffia and Qui-Gon turned toward him and regarded him with small, speculative smiles, smiles that made him, suddenly, very nervous. 

So nervous that he actually forgot himself enough to practically bark at his Master, through their link. _What?_

Qui-Gon carefully suppressed the smile, but, somehow, the apprentice knew it was still there - somewhere. 

_Nothing, Padawan. Calm yourself, and attend._

His suspicions even more aroused, Obi-Wan started to respond, to inform his Master that this discussion was nowhere near ended, when the double doors across the audience chamber swung open, and the queen of Kyri stood framed in a halo of golden light. Though no longer young, Queen Nemis was still very lovely - tall and slender and graceful, with a rich mane of copper-colored hair, streaked with silver, and heavily-lashed eyes of a rich violet shade, that seemed to see much, and find it all amusing. The queen wore emerald green, and it suited her perfectly, and the jewels that were strewn across the bodice of her gown reflected the glow of her eyes. 

There was a soft sigh of appreciation from the assembled guests. 

Obi-Wan, however, if questioned later, could not have provided a single detail concerning Her Majesty's appearance, Jedi perceptions notwithstanding. 

For he couldn't see her. 

Couldn't see anything, except the slender figure standing beside her. 

Princess Trell was sixteen years old, or so the padawan had been told, but he found that he couldn't really believe it. Surely, no one could grow so beautiful in just sixteen short years. 

In some ways, she was very like her grandmother, in coloring and stature, although she was considerably smaller and seemed more delicate. And she was gowned more simply, in a drift of creamy lace, frosted with pale amber pearls which matched the ones woven into her dark auburn hair. 

An unforgettably lovely portrait, framed there in the doorway. 

And then her eyes - lighter than her grandmother's and more lavender than violet - swept the room, and paused as they encountered the wide-eyed gaze of one very young, very lovely, very stunned Jedi padawan. 

There was a beat of total silence, or so it seemed to the two young people. 

And Crown Princess Trell - designated at birth as Holder of the Mantle of Power, Guardian of the Kyrian Temple, Defender of the Sacred Crucible, Scion of the Crimson Jade Throne - winked, very deliberately. 

Lord Kaffia and Master Qui-Gon Jinn exchanged fond, knowing smiles, as Obi-Wan's mind spiraled down into meaningless gibberish, and he struggled to form a coherent thought. 

The padawan and the princess - he told himself that it sounded like a title for a cheap holo-novel, a very melodramatic holo-novel. 

But he found that he really didn't care. 

The audience chamber was very full this morning; there were undoubtedly more than two hundred individuals in attendance. 

Obi-Wan saw only one. 

Qui-Gon watched it happen, and, despite the concerns it raised, allowed himself to reach through the training bond, very discreetly, and barely brush the warmth of his padawan's consciousness. 

Was there anything sweeter, he wondered, than the first flush of young love? 

He suppressed a sigh. And would anything ever again be quite as painful when it came - as it must - to an end? 

Quite uncharacteristically, he laid a gentle hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder, pulling his padawan back into an awareness of the moment and vowed silently to stand ready to do whatever he must to protect and comfort this child who so easily and frequently touched his heart. 

He had, somehow, hoped this would not come so early in the boy's life, this complication that the Force seemed to throw at youngsters with an enthusiasm that was almost perverse; it was more easily explained and deflected with wisdoms won over additional years of life experience. 

But it was never a matter of choice. 

It happened when it happened, and it had happened now. 

Obi-Wan, without having exchanged so much as a single word with the object of his desires, was in love. 

Qui-Gon strenuously resisted an urge to utter that most classic protest issued by all Masters (or fathers) confronted with the same situation. Why me? Indeed. 

 

**********************************************

 

When the queen and the queen-to-be were seated side-by-side on identical carved thrones, inlaid with bars of intricately carved bone and etched rare metals, the Jedi were led forward by Lord Kaffia and directed to kneel on small padded platforms located at the edge of the royal dais. 

Qui-Gon was extraordinarily grateful to note that his apprentice, despite being almost completely befuddled, as evidenced by the deafening silence of the link between them, was functioning at an acceptable level, or rather, would be, if he would simply close his mouth, which was showing an unfortunate tendency to gape. 

Under the pretense of adjusting the clasp of Obi-Wan's cape, the Master leaned forward to place a forefinger under the dimpled chin and push up firmly. 

The padawan learner regarded his Master with uncertainty, then seemed to shake off the lethargy that had gripped him and managed to keep his lips sealed, as they knelt as directed. 

"Majesties of Yesterday," intoned Lord Kaffia, bowing toward Queen Nemis, "and Tomorrow," turning to bow toward Princess Trell. "May I present Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, and his padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi." 

Nemis' smile was brilliant as she rose and came forward. "Oh, do let's dispense with all this formality, Kaff. Master Jinn and I are very old friends, as you well know." 

"Your Majesty," said Qui-Gon quietly, taking the hand she extended and raising it to his lips, "it is our great joy to see you healthy and unharmed, and we offer our services in your protection, and that of your young successor, of course." 

The Queen regarded him with warm eyes. "Have you really changed that much, Jinn? Have they finally managed to turn you into Mace Windu?" Her eyes were bright with laughter as her gaze moved to study the apprentice. "Or are you just trying to impress your young companion?" 

Qui-Gon, determined to preserve his own dignity, remained silent, but Obi-Wan was forced to suppress a smile as a glance at his Master revealed laughter that was proving extremely difficult to stifle. 

The queen stepped to the side then, and looked down into the changeable eyes of young Kenobi, her expression very gentle. "My," she said softly, "they get younger every year, don't they? How old are you, Child?" 

Obi-Wan felt the beginning of a blush warm his throat and grabbed for equanimity in the Force, determined not to embarrass himself like a stammering school boy. "I turned seventeen last quarter," he replied, with only a very small tremor in his voice. "I assure you, your majesty, that I am quite old enough to do my job." 

She smiled and braced his face with hands as soft as brushed silk. "Jedi to the core, of course. One wonders, sometimes, where in the universe the Temple manages to find such perfection." 

With a last lingering caress, she moved back to take her seat on her throne; and then it was the Princess' turn. 

As Trell rose and stepped forward, the contrasts between her and her grandmother were immediately obvious. The elder sovereign moved with great grace and fluidity, but she lacked a sense of immediacy and purpose. The same could not be said for the princess; one knew immediately that she would never divert from her chosen course; Trell would never take three steps, when two would suffice. 

"Master Jedi," she said firmly, addressing Qui-Gon first, as was proper. "Padawan Kenobi." There was absolutely nothing in her demeanor to indicate that she had ever even noticed that the younger Jedi existed, much less to acknowledge that, at first glance, she had actually winked at him. 

Nevertheless, Obi-Wan's smile when she looked his way was vaguely reminiscent of a catling surrounded by whole rivers of cream. 

Obi-Wan, through every minute of his life, was grateful and happy to be Jedi, but he didn't think he'd every been quite so grateful and happy, as he was at that moment for, despite the extreme coolness of her facial expression, his Jedi senses were shamelessly prying open a tiny corner of her emotional façade and reading what lay beneath. 

The very faint spots of color that formed high on her cheeks were extremely becoming, he thought, and knew at once that she had plucked the thought from his mind. 

The padawan clasped her extended hand, and simply held it for the space of a heartbeat- and was vaguely aware that his Master had turned to regard them both with a startled sense of recognition. 

_Careful, Padawan. Remember your place._

Obi-Wan's face could not quite conceal his sense of wonder. _Master, she's . . ._

_Very gifted. Yes, I see that. But this connection is inappropriate._

With a final glance into enchanting lilac eyes - the color, he suddenly realized, of the sky at twilight - Obi-Wan sighed, releasing her hand, and pulled his Force sense back within himself, reluctantly severing the small tendril of linking energy that had formed between the two of them. 

For her part, Trell was aware only of a slight lessening of the warmth she had sensed in the young man's presence as she resumed her seat. The small smile she wore when she glanced back at him was unchanged, and it would have taken a man of much sterner stuff than the young padawan to resist returning it in kind. 

Obi-Wan, thoroughly confused by this time, turned toward his Master, brows lifted, eyes seeking answers, but Qui-Gon's only response was a look that promised an explanation - later. 

"So tell me, Master Jedi," said Queen Nemis, "have you uncovered the identity of our resident anarchists?" 

Qui-Gon rose and regarded the queen with an indulgent smile. "Your majesty knows very well that we have not," he replied, allowing his fondness for this truly formidable woman to shine softly in his eyes. "Just as she also knows that it is most unlikely that the culprits are 'anarchists'." 

Nemis made a dismissive gesture with a languid hand. "Semantics," she said archly. "I care little what you call them, just as long as we can call them, 'caught', preferably before the coronation is completed." 

"Your Majesty," said Lord Kaffia, "our enemies have been very clever and very careful. And they're undoubtedly counting on the protocols involved in the transfer of power to bring both you and Princess Trell out into the open where it is most difficult for anyone to defend you, even the Jedi." 

Trell abruptly tore her eyes away from the very pleasant features that had occupied her attention so raptly and looked up at Qui-Gon with a great deal more sharp perception than he would have expected from her. "In your estimation, Master Jedi, where are we most vulnerable?" 

Qui-Gon required no time to ponder an answer. "That depends," he replied, "on the true objectives of your attackers." 

The queen nodded. "Personal or generic." 

The remark did not appear nearly as cryptic to the Jedi as it might have to those unfamiliar with Kyri's curious laws of succession. 

The Kyrian throne, unlike that of other monarchies, was not passed from one generation to the next upon the death of the monarch; indeed, such a succession was absolutely forbidden. Rather, it was transferred from a living queen to the eldest daughter of the queen's eldest daughter. 

In the event of the death of a sitting queen, the crown was forfeit by her heirs, and a new line of succession must be established, using ancient texts and arcane measures to seek out an appropriate bloodline to assume the monarchy. The only exception to this hard and fast rule was if the queen should be childless at the date of her death, in which case the weight of the monarchy would pass on to the next in the line of succession - the eldest daughter of the queen mother's second daughter. 

Therefore, the vulnerability of either of the royal personages - or both - depended greatly on what motivated the assassins. If their objective was to rip the throne from the control of the Wy'Placia - the family who had held the throne through the past twelve generations - they must strike before the coronation, and Queen Nemis would be their principal target. If, on the other hand, they simply opposed Princess Trell's rule, for whatever reason, they could strike at any time and, depending on the timing of the strike, at either royal personage. 

"Indulge me," said the queen, eyes bright. "Give me your recommendations for keeping my granddaughter safe." 

"Matre-mal!" exclaimed Trell, leaping to her feet. "I will not . . ." 

"Silence!" 

The expressions on the faces of the majority of the crowd demonstrated amply that none of them had ever heard that tone of command in Queen Nemis' voice before. 

"In three days," she continued, eyes locking with those of her granddaughter, "you will rule here, but, for today, I am still your queen, and you will obey my commands, Royal Daughter. Do you understand?" 

Obi-Wan studied the shadows moving deep in the Princess' eyes and figured, rightly as it turned out, that it was a near thing. She wanted - she really wanted - to argue her point, to defy her queen's command, but, in the end, she bowed beneath the weight of a lifetime of training and simply nodded. 

When she lifted those lovely, thick-lashed eyes, she saw Obi-Wan watching her, and correctly identified the sympathy in his eyes. He would one day be Jedi; she would one day be queen, and the discipline required of both was more similar than they might ever have imagined. 

"Your recommendations, Master Qui-Gon." The queen was obviously not going to be distracted from her original question. 

His response was simple. "We eliminate their access to her. Keep her within the grounds of the palace until the coronation is completed, and either I or my apprentice will be at her side every moment." 

"Impossible!" snapped Trell. "There are obligations that must be observed in the protocols, that require me to move among the people." 

Qui-Gon's face had taken on that air of dignity that Obi-Wan had once categorized as his 'I-have-spoken' look, which meant that, whatever objections anyone raised, they would be met and dismissed, with irrefutable Jedi logic. 

"You are required to move among the people," conceded the Master, "but the protocols do not specify where you are to do that. I see no reason why you can't move among selected representatives of the population here, within the walls of the palace." 

The princess' lovely, limpid eyes were becoming less limpid, by the moment, although, in Obi-Wan's estimation, they were no less lovely. "I am required," she said firmly, not without a note of triumph, "to make pilgrimage to the Vilioths." 

"You are required to pay homage to the Vilioth, certainly," agreed Qui-Gon, "but the actual letter of the stipulation does not state that you must go to them. It is perfectly acceptable and, given the nature of this threat, imminently logical, for them to come to you." 

By this time, Trell's face had darkened several shades, and she had stiffened to the point of rigidity. It was obvious to all concerned that an emotional upheaval was becoming more and more inevitable. 

"Master," said Obi-Wan softly. "May I?" He nodded toward the princess. 

A sharp reply trembled on Qui-Gon's lips, but he managed to swallow it. Reasoning with Queen Nemis had been an exercise in logic and adult interchange, the kind of negotiation in which he was at his best, but he knew that he was treading now in areas rife with adolescent turbulence. Ultimately, he simply sighed and nodded, obviously operating under the assumption that his padawan could hardly make matters any worse. 

As Obi-Wan moved forward diffidently, the Master's eyes widened abruptly as he realized how completely irrational that assumption was. 

Obi-Wan was careful not to crowd the princess' personal space as he approached, and knelt just close enough for the hem of his cape to brush against the lace of her skirt. "Your highness," he said softly, so softly that she alone could hear, "please don't go on with this. I know you're concerned for your grandmother, but you're causing her great distress by continuing your disobedience." 

The lavender eyes, he learned immediately, were perfectly capable of flaming with anger. "What do you know about it, Jedi?" 

"Actually, a very great deal," he replied, smiling softly. "I am constantly required to submit to the will of a man who cares far too little for his own well-being, and far too much for mine. And I despair of ever making him understand that risking himself, risks me, as well. However, making an issue of it is useless. Just as this disagreement is useless for you. She is still your sovereign, and you must obey. Must you also make her angry and doubly vigilant to make sure you follow her orders to the letter?" 

The rage in her eyes simmered for a moment, then morphed into something else, something laced with warmth. "You wouldn't be suggesting that I resort to subterfuge, would you?" 

His lips twitched slightly - too slightly to be a real smile. "Certainly not. I'm a Jedi; we don't do subterfuge." 

Her face was suddenly alight with subdued laughter. "Of course, you don't." 

"Besides," he continued, just slightly roguish now, "I've met the Vilioths, and although their tentacles are a perfectly lovely shade of blue, would you rather spend the next three days interacting with them, or sunbathing by the pool, with me?" 

Trell actually laughed aloud. "OK, Jedi. You've convinced me. I actually think that might come under the heading of an offer just too good to resist." 

 

*******************************************************************

Before they could get to the somnolent moments he envisioned beside a lovely, free-form pool, Obi-Wan understood that they had to endure seemingly endless formalities, and he had to present himself for any discipline his Master might deem appropriate. 

Not that he had been deliberately willful or disobedient, but he had been distracted and less than attentive, not to mention slightly brusque on several occasions during the long afternoon following their audience with the royal family. He had not intended to be rude or less than forthcoming; he simply couldn't seem to focus on the moment. 

He was much too focused on the memory of eyes the color of the heavens at twilight. 

At that hour of the day - usually his favorite, for he often remarked that the light of any given day was brightest and loveliest as it was extinguished, a whimsical notion that his Master had often dismissed as romantic nonsense - he found himself in the small, immaculate garden that surrounded the dwelling he shared with Qui-Gon, with enough time before he needed to prepare for the evening's event to run through one of the shorter training katas. 

He removed his cape, and laid it neatly across a low retaining wall, before also removing his outer tunic. The day had been warm, and the stone pavers on which he stood still radiated a gentle heat as the first mist of evening stirred far out over the ocean's sweep. 

He was more than half-way through the ninth kata - the one padawans called Mochel's Flight, in honor of a long-dead Jedi who had perfected the aerial maneuvers - when he sensed the arrival of his Master, along with an unexpected guest. Still, he did not pause in his endeavors; one did not, after all, simply halt a kata of this complexity. Instead, he allowed himself to embellish the formal movements - just slightly - for the entertainment of the observers. 

He was rewarded with the enthusiastic applause of Lord Kaffia when he completed the kata with a perfect back flip, getting superb lift as he launched himself, and ending with a graceful landing in a lunge position with lightsaber fully extended. 

Qui-Gon's comment was a slightly sardonic smile. 

"That was astonishing, Padawan Kenobi," said Kaffia, beaming his approval. 

"You're very kind, Sir." 

The Kyrian thought, for just a moment, that he really should be annoyed that the boy wasn't even breathing hard, although he was damp with perspiration. 

"Are you procrastinating, Padawan?" The gentle gleam in the Master's eyes removed all sting from the question. "The ball begins in just over an hour, and I don't believe your 'date' is the type who would enjoy being kept waiting." 

The padawan grinned. "I wouldn't be surprised if she were the type to have escorts who showed up late tied down and flogged, and I guess I do need a shower, don't I?" 

"That would be in your best interests, yes," said Qui-Gon. "You don't exactly smell like a dainty flower." 

Kaffia watched the interaction between the two with great interest. He was one of very few of Qui-Gon's friends who personally remembered the Master's last apprentice, and he shivered slightly, despite the warmth of the night. It was wonderful to see his friend involved once more in a healthy partnership with a young man worthy of his devotion. 

As Obi-Wan disappeared into the cottage, the Kyrian caught the Master's eye. "It might be a good idea," he said softly, "to remind him of a few salient facts of life, my friend, if you get my meaning." 

Qui-Gon smiled. "I do, Old Friend, and there are other issues as well. If you don't mind waiting for a bit . . ." 

Kaffia simply settled himself on a comfortable stone bench and prepared to enjoy the spectacle of the end of the day, while the Jedi went to find his apprentice. 

******************** 

As a padawan, Obi-Wan had been required to develop many skills over the years. Some he learned with great ease; some with more difficulty. Given time, he mastered them all, but a few, though learned and learned well, never became second nature to him. 

Like taking a shower without pausing to revel in the sweet sensations of pure, lovely water pouring over his body. 

Master Qui-Gon had often remarked - to anyone who would listen - that his padawan could single-handedly wipe out the hot water supply of the entire Jedi Temple in one session. 

But this night was different; the allure of the shower paled in comparison to the other sensations drifting through his mind. 

He was in and out of the 'fresher in near record time, and standing before a mirror, fussing with his padawan braid, clad only in dark dress pants when his Master appeared in the open doorway of his bedroom. 

For a moment, Qui-Gon was silent, a small, bemused smile touching his mobile lips, as he studied the youth before him. Where, he wondered abruptly, had this elegant young creature come from, and when? Just yesterday - it could not possibly have been longer than that - the boy had been all awkward arms and legs and feet too big for the rest of his body. And now . . . 

Obi-Wan was standing at the brink of manhood, and what a man he would be; the boy, who had, perhaps, been just a bit too pretty for his own liking as a child, would be downright breathtaking as an adult. Already, when he walked through the Temple - which, according to Knight Depa Billaba, he didn't; instead, he strutted, and did so with a natural grace that was as entrancing as it was completely unstudied - eyes followed him hungrily, and, in his presence, there was a definite tendency among sentient beings of all variety - both male and female - to become more tactile. People liked to touch him, and he liked to be touched. Knight Billaba - ever a source of candor - likened him to a catling cub, claiming that the boy almost purred when stroked. 

And then, of course, there were those eyes. The Master rather thought there would be volumes of poetry written about those eyes alone, if there weren't already. 

Obi-Wan continued to fidget with his hair and with a braid that had, apparently, decided that the time had come to be recalcitrant. The padawan, who very seldom resorted to swearing, muttered a particularly vile Huttish curse, and jerked the braid free of the beaded band that restrained it. 

The Master decided he should step forward, before the youth was rendered completely bald. Long, gentle fingers, much more deft than their thickness would seem to indicate, gathered the strands of ginger hair and began to plait them neatly. 

"Thank you, Master," breathed Obi-Wan, knowing that Qui-Gon could have repaired the braid in his sleep. 

"You are distracted, my padawan," said the Master, meeting Obi-Wan's eyes in the mirror. 

The apprentice sighed. "Yes, Master. I'm sorry." 

Qui-Gon's smile was gentle. "You needn't apologize, Obi-Wan. Believe it or not, I do understand how you feel." 

"You do?" It was obvious from the boy's tone that he had grave doubts about that statement. 

The Master laughed. "I know you think me ancient, Padawan, but I am not so old that I don't remember those feelings." 

The boy sighed. "I know it's inappropriate." 

Qui-Gon braced his big hands against the boy's shoulders. "Actually, it's quite lovely, my apprentice." 

Sea-change eyes darkened abruptly. "Oh, please, don't 'indulge' me, Master, and, if you tell me it's 'cute'. . . ." 

The Master's tone was soothing. "Of course, it isn't; certainly not to you. But it is something that every young man goes through, sooner or later. The problem is, that every young man is not Jedi." 

The apprentice was silent for a moment, before turning and dropping gracefully to his knees. "I ask forgiveness, Master," he said, falling into comfortable ritual, "for my lapse in judgment, and my failure to adhere to the tenets of the Code." 

Qui-Gon smiled and was forced to squelch the huge surge of pride that swept through him; this was his prize student - his Obi-Wan - he who would be the Master's greatest legacy. And he who would, if so allowed, assume responsibility for every single instance of wrongdoing perpetrated against the Jedi, since the day of his birth, or even beyond. 

"You've done nothing to absolve, Obi-Wan. Come and sit with me. We need to talk." 

When they were settled comfortably on the banquette in the common room of the cottage, Qui-Gon turned to look at his padawan, and Obi-Wan noted immediately when a subtle change flared in the Master's eyes. In that instant, the elder Jedi settled into a more formal mode - his teaching mode - and the apprentice was appropriately attentive. 

"Look at me, Padawan," commanded the Master, raising a forefinger to point at his own eyes. "Right here." 

"Yes, Master." 

Qui-Gon heaved a small sigh. "I know it is very difficult, but you must focus, Obi-Wan. I want you to consider how aware of your surroundings you will be, if all you can think of is trying to define the color of Trell's eyes." 

The boy nodded. "Not aware enough." 

"Exactly. Now what do you propose to do about it?" 

Obi-Wan resorted to a habit he had acquired on the very same day he had acquired a Jedi Master; he fiddled with his braid. "I have to let go of these feelings, channel them into the Force." 

The Master smiled gently. "That's a wonderful aspiration, but do you really believe you can do that, just because it's the wise thing to do?" 

"What else is there to do?" It was obvious that the youth was feeling completely miserable. 

"What I would suggest is that you learn to control the feelings, instead of allowing them to control you." 

Obi-Wan huffed a very small laugh. "Sounds like the classic definition of easier said than done." 

"But it is possible, my Obi-Wan. I assure you." 

The padawan nodded, and rose to his feet. "Of course, Master. And I promise you that I will not embarrass you again. I . . ." 

Qui-Gon's sigh was almost dramatic. "Sit down, and stop talking like an imbecile." 

"Master?" Obi-Wan's eyes were huge, and clearly saying that he could not possibly have heard correctly. His Master could not possibly have called him an . . . 

"I am trying to help you, Obi-Wan. You're struggling through an emotional minefield here, and you won't even reach out for a friendly hand to guide you through it." 

Qui-Gon was watching that fresh young face closely and saw the very split second when his padawan's stubbornness raised its ugly head. "Master, I'm perfectly capable of handling this by myself." 

"And why should you?" The Master's tone was silky and very soft. 

Frustration flared immediately in shadowed eyes. "Because I'm not a needy child, or I shouldn't be. I shouldn't have to ask you for help for every little thing. I should be . . ." 

"Seventeen years old." The interruption was sharp and biting. 

"What?" Occasionally, in the heat of the moment, Obi-Wan could be sharp and biting as well, much to his Master's secret delight. 

"That's what you should be, Obi-Wan. Seventeen, and still growing. Still learning. If you knew everything you need to know at this age, you would be ready for your trials tomorrow and have no further need for my instruction." 

The Master waited, concluding correctly that he had said enough. 

The boy sank back into the softness of the cushioned banquette with a small, scapegrace smile. "I will always need your instruction, my Master." 

With a grin, Qui-Gon leaned forward and grabbed the boy in a bear hug, while running big calloused hands through hair that would now have to be retamed. 

"Aw, Master, stop," protested the padawan. "I look like a ten-year-old when you do that." 

"Come, Infant," laughed the Master, pulling the youth down into meditational posture, "and I will show you how to focus your attentions where they belong, while still allocating a small portion of your brain for the fascinating examination of the color of the lady's eyes." 

The boy settled to his knees, still smiling. "Evening sky," he said softly. 

"What?" Now it was the Master's turn to be bewildered. 

"That's the color of her eyes." 

Qui-Gon studied his apprentice's face for a moment, before reaching out to neaten the coil of the padawan braid. "Some," he said gently, "might say the same of yours, at any given moment." 

Obi-Wan actually blushed, as he always did when the subject of his appearance was raised. His unawareness of his own beauty would not last, of course; as he grew into manhood, he would be pursued and flattered and cajoled until he finally reached a point of acceptance. But, for the moment, his naiveté was singularly sweet. 

As they settled into the first stage of meditation, the lovely, drifting place where all distractions were released to float away like foam on the sea, the Master extended his consciousness, first to embrace and then to enclose that of his apprentice, to guide him deeper into the hyper-awareness that was the Force, and open him to the resources it provided. At the same time, with a degree of control and discretion only available to very skilled Jedi Masters, he eased past his padawan's emotional shields and soothed the boy's doubts concerning his own abilities. 

For this was Obi-Wan's one true weakness, his lack of faith in himself, and it was a liability he would battle throughout his life, never realizing - as his Master and virtually everyone else around him did - that his gifts were truly extraordinary, and that he would prove to be an exemplary Jedi knight. 

In a remarkably short time - just minutes actually - the Master drew back, and both retreated from their union with the Force. The Master opened his eyes and smiled at the bright glow of confidence and assurance that had turned his apprentice's eyes the green of sea quartz. 

Obi-Wan smiled. "I'm ready, Master. I can protect her now, as a Jedi should." 

Qui-Gon nodded. "Just make sure you also protect yourself. You are very precious to the Jedi, Obi-Wan, and to me." 

The boy rose and moved toward his bedroom to finish dressing, looking forward to seeing Trell in the splendor of formal dress, even while he dreaded the discomfort of his own tight collar that was part and parcel of the academy dress uniform he had been directed to wear. It was really quite dashing, he acknowledged, the dark trousers a perfect contrast to the royal blue jacket, piped with scarlet and gold, but it was heavy and stiff and he was quite sure he'd be chafed in places he didn't even want to think about by the time the evening was done. 

"Obi-Wan," the Master called after him, "I believe tonight will also provide an excellent opportunity for practicing your social skills." 

The boy sighed. Social skills were not big on his list of favorite things to practice. "If you say so, Master." 

Qui-Gon grinned. "Given the vision that the two of you are going to provide on the dance floor, you'll probably need a whip and a chair to beat off your admirers." 

The padawan managed a fair facsimile of the old Corellian evil eye as he looked back at his Master. "If you're trying to make me feel better, Master," he said sternly, "you're failing, miserably." 

Qui-Gon didn't even bother to try to suppress his affectionate laughter. 

******************* *************** ******************

 

For the Kyrian briasta - the humanoid faction of the population of the planet - beauty was as necessary for life as breathing, and it was incorporated into the smallest details of their culture. Even the drinking fountains in public areas were hand-carved from blocks of some pastel mineral - sometimes pale rose, or soft lilac or icy green - veined with threads of ruby or amethyst or sapphire, that seemed almost to glow when the sun's radiance struck them at just the right angle. 

Utilitarian, therefore, was a word that had little meaning; yet, the civilization was not without its pragmatic side, and the technology, though heavy on embellishment and the perfection of form, was not without function. 

Even such mundane concerns as security precautions did not entirely escape the cultural preoccupation with visual loveliness. 

Thus the force fields that surrounded the palace on this very special occasion were a great deal more than just domes of plasma energy that hovered placidly over the building and grounds and never showed themselves at all unless they were engaged to rebuff a particular threat. That, of course, was the norm for such shielding. 

The Kyrians simply couldn't bear to leave it at that; what, after all, was the point of having so much power - deterrent or otherwise - and allowing it to remain unseen? 

Therefore, the Kyrian force fields were a carousel of broad stripes of bright color, moving and reforming constantly, like a child's kaleidoscope, glowing and dancing to unseen harmonies, heavy enough to deter the most determined attackers, but delicate enough to allow frequent glimpses of stars and crescent moons and nebulae and distant worlds. 

Obi-Wan could only stand and stare. 

Once, on Alderaan, in the company of a group of padawans and out of the company of any Masters - really, really out, he recalled - he had visited an establishment that he knew, with absolutely no doubt, that Qui-Gon would have removed him from at first glance, slung over his shoulder, if necessary. It had been called, if he remembered correctly, the Bridal Veils. 

The group of apprentices had not dared linger long in such a place, knowing full well that, despite their best efforts, they were broadcasting their rather intense emotions through their training bonds, but they had stayed long enough to learn that there was absolutely nothing 'bridal' about the veils that gave the dingy little pub its name. Obi-Wan had certainly heard the term, exotic dancer, before; had even been present at demonstrations of that ancient art, in the course of missions to a few worlds where the cultural environment was less rarefied than that of Coruscant's upper levels, but the Dance of Falling Veils, as it was termed, that he and his companions had witnessed that night, just before their Masters had descended on them en masse, had been something entirely different, entirely out of his experience and, for a naïve, fresh-faced boy of fourteen, entirely unforgettable. 

The experience had almost been worth the month-long grounding and the course in Aboriginal Choreography of the Malastairian Sub-Continent that had been assessed as part of his punishment. Almost. 

Standing within the brilliance of the revolving shields brought back the memory of those tantalizing veils, and . . . 

A stern gaze from his Master made absolutely sure that he did not pursue that thought any further. 

The crowds that were gathered in the entry of the great palace were a stunning feast for the eyes - the women elegantly gowned in glowing shades of synth silk, edged with delicate Chimilian lace and crusted with brilliant jewels, beneath elaborate coiffures graced with gem-laden tiaras or nets of glowing pearls; the men were more somber, but no less elegant, favoring dark tapered trousers beneath long, tailored waistcoats of deep jewel-tone colors, and voluminous cravats, adorned with huge polished stones, set in heavy frames of precious metal. 

In contrast, the two Jedi were garbed quite simply, despite the decidedly elegant cut of their clothing. Obi-Wan's uniform, in royal and black, was intensely flattering to his coloring, and Master Jinn, in shades of charcoal, from neck to toe, looked very sophisticated, though somewhat subdued. 

The apprentice, ever alert and sensitive to matters pertaining to his Master, noticed what Qui-Gon did not, and knew that it was not an uncommon occurrence. The padawan was not unaware of eyes that turned to watch him as the two made their way through the crowd to the doorway which would admit them to the queen's private quarters, but he also knew that many of the gazes turned toward them were centered on his Master's grace and presence. 

Qui-Gon - unexpectedly - snagged the observation from his padawan's mind and sent a mental scoff his way in return. 

_You simply choose not to see, Master._ The apprentice couldn't quite keep a teasing tone out of his thoughts. _For instance, there's a quite lovely blonde heading your way, coming in at two o'clock. I could be mistaken, of course, but I don't think it's the appetizers on the table behind you that are making her look so - hungry._

_Padawan mine?_

_Yes, Master?_

_Unless you wish to spend your next semester break at the polar observatory on Hoth . . ._

Obi-Wan grinned. _Say no more, my Master. Subject dropped - abandoned - forgotten._

_Or Dagobah, perhaps, in high summer. Just imagine the aroma, in the heat of. . ._

_Master?_

Now it was Qui-Gon's turn to smile. _Yes?_

 _Did anyone ever point out that - for a Jedi Master - you have a really diabolical imagination?_

_I believe Master Windu did mention that, once or twice. Now, what was that about a blonde?_

_What blonde?_

The bond flushed with warm laughter. _Good answer, my Padawan._

When they were admitted into the corridor that led to the queen's private apartments, they paused for a moment, and the Master, in a gesture that was uniquely paternal, reached out and adjusted the high collar that Obi-Wan found so irritating. When he noted that there really was a patch of slightly reddened skin beneath the collar's braided closure, he sent a soothing pulse of Force healing energy into the abrasion. 

Obi-Wan was looking up at him, eyes warm with amusement. "Doesn't that constitute frivolous use of the Force, Master?" 

"Certainly not." The response was completely serious. "Tonight you represent the Jedi, in a very public role. I wouldn't want you to tarnish our reputation by tugging at your collar like a wiggling schoolboy." 

Obi-Wan chose not to answer, but the Master knew the boy had seen through his little ploy. It was a frivolous use of the Force, but he doubted that the Force would mind, particularly since it seemed that the Force was as fond of this boy as the entire Jedi order was. 

Lord Kaffia was waiting for them outside the ornately carved door that opened into the queen's private sitting room. He had changed into the formal livery of the queen's court and was very distinguished in ruby and gray, but his expression revealed weariness and increased concern. 

"What has happened?" asked Qui-Gon immediately. 

"Threats," replied the royal guardsman, "and more threats. All sufficiently vague that we have no idea where to focus, but all sufficiently vicious that we dare not ignore them." 

"How were they received?" asked Obi-Wan, eyes sweeping the corridor in both directions, senses automatically elevating to a higher level of awareness. 

The Master spared a moment to allow his padawan to sense his approval, before turning his full attention to the Kyrian's response. 

"Public coms, all of them, with voice distortion. No clue there." 

"Actually," said Qui-Gon slowly, "you're wrong. The fact that they used such a device is a clue in itself." 

"What do you mean?" It was obvious that Kaffia was so bone-weary that he was almost beyond coherent thought. 

"Why bother with such a disguise," explained Obi-Wan, "unless you have reason to believe that your voice might be recognized?" 

Lord Kaffia looked back and forth between the two for a moment, then smiled. "I think I need a nap," he admitted. "I never thought of that." 

"Have the queen and the princess been informed?" asked the Jedi Master. 

The Kyrian sighed. "Yes, of course." 

Obi-Wan suppressed a smile as he caught the flash of patience strained beyond all reason in the security chief's expression. 

"Let me guess," said the padawan. "Queen Nemis is unperturbed, and Princess Trell is ready to ride out into the city and take on all comers." 

Kaffia smiled. "Your Master has taught you well, young apprentice." 

Qui-Gon appeared deep in thought, but roused himself to say, "I never taught him that, Kaff. Nor did anyone else. He was born with it." 

"Nevertheless . . ." 

"Kaff," the Master said suddenly, "give me your best take on all this. Who is the real target?" 

The Kyrian drew a deep, shaky breath. "The Queen," he replied softly. "If the motive is political, and I can't think how it could be anything else, it has to be the Queen. Killing Trell changes nothing, except the identity of she who will rule. Politically, there is little difference between Trell and Princess Maliyah, and the dynasty remains intact. If the assassins desire true political change, they will target the Queen." 

"And the process to choose a new royal family," said Qui-Gon. "Is it truly immune to political manipulation?" 

Kaffia raised rigid fingers to massage his temples. "As recently as last year, I would have said yes, without qualification. The process is controlled by the eldest priests of the Kyrian Temple of Silent Spirits, and I would still hope that such personages would be incorruptible, but . ." 

"But you are no longer sure." Qui-Gon's voice was soft with sympathy. 

The Kyrian sighed. "No. I no longer know what to think. If there are elements of political rebellion at work here, it may be that nothing is safe any longer. Nevertheless, the Queen is the logical target." 

The Jedi Master nodded. "That is my assessment as well. And yet . . ." 

"Something bothers you, Master?" The apprentice recognized the note of speculation in Qui-Gon's voice. 

"Yes, Padawan." The elder Jedi sighed. "I believe Lord Kaffia's conclusion is sound, but there is something else at work here. Something elusive; something that does not quite fit the pattern." 

Obi-Wan nodded and waited. For, at this moment, with crisis hovering around them, despite his very extensive knowledge and superior analytical skills, he became an instrument of his Master's will, and he would accept whatever direction Qui-Gon chose to give him. 

This ability - this willingness to subjugate himself to the authority of his Master, without question, had been one of the most difficult lessons he had ever been required to learn. He knew, with complete certainty, that, if he disagreed with his Master's conclusions and elected to speak his own mind, Qui-Gon would listen to him and give careful consideration to everything he said; but, in the end, it was the will of the Master that must be obeyed. 

He Master almost sighed. "I assume there is no question of curtailing the evening's festivities?" 

"You assume correctly," agreed Kaffia, with a weary smile, "and you take your life in your hands if you even suggest it." 

Qui-Gon nodded. "Very well, then. Padawan?" 

"Yes, Master?" 

"Whether she likes it or not - whether she agrees or not - you will not leave Princess Trell's side for the duration of the evening. Is that clear?" 

Despite the gravity of the situation, Obi-Wan didn't bother to conceal his grin. "Perfectly clear, Master." 

"Even during the ceremonial rituals that are required as part of the protocols for the transfer of power. You will stay at her side, and be constantly alert." 

"Yes, Master." 

Qui-Gon spared a moment to gaze into his padawan's eyes, and the Master smiled to take the sting out of his words. 

"You will not have time to debate or explore the question of the color of her eyes." 

A quick glance at Lord Kaffia revealed that his expression was just as knowing, and just as indulgent, as that of the elder Jedi, and Obi-Wan was hard put to stifle a moan. 

"And one more thing," said the Master. "You will take your lightsaber out from beneath your jacket and hang it on your belt, in plain sight, where it will be immediately available to you and, perhaps, provide a small deterrent to anyone who might be watching." 

The apprentice complied immediately and found that he somehow felt better just in being able to lay his hand on that familiar hilt. 

************* ******************* 

 

Queen Nemis was alone in the sitting room when they entered, sitting in a shadowy built-in window seat, her patrician profile very sharp against the background of the rainbow radiance of the security fields outside. The ambient light in the chamber was very soft, but it was sufficient to allow the Jedi to note that the room was large and bright and beautiful, as was the woman who seemed, somehow, to provide its center, even tucked away in a shadowy alcove. 

They waited respectfully until she chose to acknowledge their presence. 

It was a short wait. 

Sighing softly, she rose and came forward, leaning somewhat heavily on a stout, heavily-carved wooden cane, a cane that had been nowhere in evidence during their earlier interaction in the audience chamber. 

Noting the question rising in the young Jedi's eyes, Nemis favored him with a fond smile. "Yes, Pretty Jedi, you are quite right. I do not use my cane when I appear in public. On Kyri, imperfection is indicative of weakness, and I cannot afford to appear weak." 

Qui-Gon was busy studying her face as she addressed his padawan, and inspiration struck quickly and surely. "You know, don't you?" he said suddenly. "You know who's threatening you." 

But the Queen - having been a Queen for a very long time - would not be pushed, not even by a Jedi Master. "I know nothing. I suspect many things, but suspicions are not proof, Qui-Gon. As you very well know." 

"But . . ." 

She raised an imperious hand, laden with a wealth of filigreed, jeweled bands, and, without actually speaking a word, forbade him to continue. 

With many, many years of diplomatic experience in his background, the Master fell silent, but the apprentice was not so thoroughly grounded in automatic diplomacy, or so easily deterred. 

"For your granddaughter," he said softly. "Will you not speak for her sake?" 

The Queen's eyes widened, and, for a moment, the room grew unnaturally silent. The boy's impertinence could be interpreted as willful disrespect, an act which would demand some form of formal disciplinary action. Even on lovely Kyri, such an act could not simply be ignored, if the Queen chose not to ignore it. 

Finally, however, her expression softened, and she turned her attention once more to the youth standing before her, who was so bright with artless honesty that he almost took her breath away. Under her gaze, he instinctively sank to his knees, head bowed. 

"Bless you, Child," she laughed gently. "It is a kindness to hear - on occasion - a voice that does not stop to consider the consequences of honest speech to a ruling monarch. But there are things you do not - cannot - know, and I must do as your Master will do and put my trust in you, to protect my royal daughter. Will you do that for me?" 

"With my life, Your Majesty." 

With a tiny, wistful smile, she leaned over and kissed the crown of his head, with aching gentleness. "You know, I could wish . . ." 

He looked up, curious at the strange note in her voice. "Wish what, Milady?" 

She sighed as she turned away. "Wish for miracles, Young Jedi, but miracles are very elusive things. The more one reaches for them, the more they rush away." 

Obi-Wan looked puzzled, but didn't pursue the question. The look in the Queen's eyes - gem-toned eyes that had once been piercing and riveting, no doubt, but now seemed slightly unfocused - was pensive, almost mournful, and the young Jedi wondered if he would really want to know her true meaning. 

A small doorway, concealed in pale shadows at the back of the sitting room, opened slowly, and a slender figure was silhouetted against soft light from the adjacent room. 

Obi-Wan managed - just barely - to stifle a gasp, as Trell moved forward through the room's simulated gloaming. Random glints of radiance struck an opalescent glow from the long sweep of her gown. and the padawan wondered, somewhat idly, if some tradition decreed that she must wear white until she was crowned. If such a tradition did exist, he thought he should voice his opinion - to someone - that he approved profoundly. 

Her hair was swept up and clasped into a cluster of pale blossoms at the crown of her head, then fell in a cascade of soft curls down over her back, ending at her waist, with soft tendrils curling around her neckline and by her ears. Her skin, against the creaminess of the gown, was as flawless as fine porcelain, with spots of color high on her cheekbones, framing those incredible eyes, fringed with equally incredible lashes. 

The bodice of her gown, appliqued with pearl-crusted motifs, fit tightly, emphasizing the smallness of her waist, and left one very soft shoulder completely bare. The skirt was full and graceful, and swirled around her as she moved, falling away into a graceful train. 

She continued to advance into the room, until she stood directly before Obi-Wan, an impudent grin on her face as she stared up into his eyes. 

"Well?" she said softly, expectantly. 

The young Jedi had spent many years learning his craft, learning endless lessons in communication and tactful negotiating and verbal diplomacy. He had been a member of debate teams that had dazzled opponents with their logic and grasp of language and syntax. He had even, on occasion, been successful in convincing opponents at a negotiating table to come around to his point of view, and he had never been known to be at a loss for the right words, at the right time. 

All of which went right out of his mind as he gazed down into those evening sky eyes. 

"Wow!" 

It was all he could think of to say. 

Qui-Gon Jinn winced, but Princess Trell's smile was blinding. 

And Queen Nemis, as she gazed out into darkness falling across the lovely visage of her world, was successful in concealing the single tear that traced its way down her face. 

 

*******************

 

If he'd spent any time thinking about it - which he hadn't - he'd have expected the grand ballroom of the Kyrian palace to be splendidly ornate, and extremely beautiful, and he'd have been correct. When the heavily carved double doors leading from the Queen's private quarters swung open, a wide landing was revealed, from which two curving stairwells descended, one from either side, banisters composed of wood turnings polished to an impossible gloss and festooned with racemes of exotic thick-petaled blossoms of deep crimson, and star-shaped blooms of cream and heliotrope stripes, surrounded by clouds of tiny buds of deep, luminous midnight blue, all set off by delicate deep-cut foliage, twined with wide drifts of sheer pastel ribbons. 

Below, the ballroom was a vision of exquisite design, sculpted of light and shadow, everything arranged to be soft and sensual, nothing harsh or sharp, from the gentle patterns formed by pulsing waters, illuminated in revolving drifts of rose and pink and lavender, in a grand fountain just below the balcony at the lip of the stairs, through banks of flowers arranged and positioned to capture the eye and relay it on to the next lovely display; from the gentle glow of candles strategically placed around the vast chamber to enhance the ambiance of radiance without impeding the flow of the crowd or the soft air currents that circled and eddied, causing flames to dance with its passage, through flickering torcheres standing just beyond the banks of arched, transparent doorways that stood open to the splendor of the night. The floor, a sweep of fine-grained wood, polished to a rich, golden patina, reflected light and color and warmth. And above everything, a scent reminiscent of exotic spices, slightly heated and concentrated by the flames of the candles to an intensity that caught and held the imagination of all it touched. 

The music that wound its way through the room was soft and unobtrusive and endlessly sweet. 

Having been designated the 'official' escort of the young queen-to-be, Obi-Wan stood well back in the shadows, out of the line of sight of the glittering audience gathered below, waiting for the entrance of the monarchs, both past and future. 

With the rise of the lyrical trill of hundreds of bells, Queen Nemis stepped forward, on the arm of her tall, elegant Jedi escort, and stood - regal and magnificent - in the pale radiance that poured from hidden spotlights high above. 

There was a momentary hush, and then a swell of music, stirring, almost martial in character, bright with brass. 

To the sound of rising applause, the gracious queen, gowned tonight in a fine brocade as fluid as dark liquid, aglow with the inner fire of fine sapphires, allowed herself to be escorted down the stairs. 

Obi-Wan was impressed with the splendid stature and noble carriage of the Queen, but thought his Master was equally impressive. 

Beside him, Trell appeared very calm, but her gloved hand, resting on his wrist, trembled slightly, like a leaf touched by a breath of wind. 

"Don't be afraid," he whispered. "Everything will be all right." 

She looked up at him, and those glorious eyes seemed to refract light from every possible source, and he was surprised to see that her smile reflected only excitement and a measure of mischief. Which was confirmed when she lifted her face, as if to whisper some small confidence, and swept her tongue around the inner whirl of his ear. 

The apprentice went totally stiff as a jolt of . . . something he could not begin to identify, swept straight down his spine, before racing all the way to his toes, taking a few somewhat remarkable detours on its way. 

Obi-Wan drew a deep shaky breath as the link to his Master flared into brilliance. 

_Obi-Wan?_

_Yes, Master?_ He sounded shaky, even to himself. 

_What's wrong?_

_Nothing's wrong. Everything is fine._

_Are you . . ._

_I'm sure. Don't concern yourself._

When he looked down at his companion, the future queen of Kyri actually crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out, then laughed softly. "Lighten up, my Jedi," she said softly. "I'm supposed to enjoy this night, and I don't want you ruining everything by looking like a thundercloud. You're so much prettier when you smile." 

"Do not," he said firmly, "do anything like that again." 

Her incredibly thick lashes dropped to conceal the luster in her eyes, but nothing could have hidden the warmth in her smile. "Didn't you like it?" 

"That's beside the point." 

"OK," she said abruptly, "then what is the point?" 

"I rather thought the point was to see you crowned, with your pretty head still attached to your shoulders." His tone was neither playful nor insouciant. 

"Well," she said with a small pout, "at least you think I'm pretty." 

"Also beside the point," he retorted. 

She sighed. "So that's what you plan to do tonight? Your duty." 

He found that he was very uncomfortable with the look in her eyes. "Among other things," he finally managed to answer. 

"Other things, like what?" she asked, smiling up at him. 

"Like staying close to you." 

"Of course," she replied, "all part of your duty. What else?" 

"Whatever is required." He knew it was a completely inadequate answer, but he couldn't think of another single coherent word to say. 

"And, if I require that you dance with me, would that be classified as 'duty'?" 

He cleared his throat. "Yes, I believe it would." 

She tilted her head to peek from under lowered lashes. "And if I asked you to walk with me in the garden, would that be 'duty', as well?" 

He had a sudden almost irresistible urge to tug at his tight - and growing tighter - collar. "Yes." 

A burst of applause from below alerted them to the fact that they must prepare to make their entrance; yet still she held him motionless with just her gaze. "Are you prepared, my Jedi, to perform your duty tonight, as required?" 

"Oh," he sighed, "I am." 

And when he would have moved, still she held him. "Do you know what my duty consists of tonight, Obi-Wan?" 

He looked momentarily confused. "To see and be seen by your people?" 

"Partly." 

She smiled, took his arm, and moved toward the doorway. "Tonight, I will meet, for the first time, he who will be my consort - very briefly, of course. A formality, really, as the actual marriage, such as it is, won't occur for years. But mostly, tonight, my duty is to indulge myself in every conceivable type of pleasure - whatever I want, whenever I want, as much as I want." He was suddenly pierced by the brilliant fire in her eyes. "With whomever I want." She reached up and touched one scarlet-tipped finger to his chin. "Bet you didn't know that, did you?" 

For the second time in a short span of minutes, Obi-Wan Kenobi found himself speechless, as the princess laughed in delight. 

 

************** ************** ************** 

Not until the reigning Queen was settled on her throne on a raised dais across from the staircase did the signal come for the queen-to-be to begin her descent on the arm of her dashing young escort. The Kyrian people, in addition to their almost decadent absorption with beauty, were very romantic by nature and as enamored of physical beauty in sentient beings as in inanimate objects. 

Thus, when the young people stepped through the doorway into the light pooling from above, there was a collective, appreciative sigh of contentment. Lilting music - less ponderous than that which had accompanied the Queen's arrival - swelled around them.  


Qui-Gon Jinn stood beside the throne, with Lord Kaffia at his shoulder, and both were stricken almost speechless by the sheer loveliness of the sight before them. 

"You know, Qui," said Kaffia, speculation obvious in his tone, "this might not have been such a good idea." 

"Why?" asked the Jedi, obviously startled by the remark. 

The Kyrian nodded toward the couple that seemed to float down the stairs instead of just walking. "Adolescent hormones. We might just be playing with fire." 

But, if the Jedi felt any misapprehension at all, he covered it well. "I know my padawan, Kaff. Obi-Wan will never put his personal feelings ahead of his duty." 

Queen Nemis turned sharply to gaze up into Qui-Gon's face, and favored him with a roguish smile - a smile which sparked a flame of pure terror within his heart. "Why are you so sure that the two must always be mutually exclusive, Qui-Gon?" 

The Jedi attempted a smile, but he was pretty sure that it came off as a grimace. "He's just a boy." 

The Queen harrumphed loudly. "Looks pretty much full grown to me," she declared. 

The Master decided abruptly that this was a conversation he did not want to have, but the stunning portrait provided by the two figures now crossing the dance floor toward them made if difficult to focus on anything else. 

"I was right," said the Jedi softly. 

"About what?" asked Kaffia, still somewhat bemused. 

"Look at the expressions on all the faces around them." 

"OK, and?" 

Qui-Gon sighed. "They really are going to have to beat them off with a whip and a chair." 

Abruptly, Lord Kaffia laughed, and the awkwardness of the moment was broken; nevertheless, the Jedi Master thought that his mission had just become much more complicated - exponentially more complicated. Now he must not only safeguard the lives of both the elder and the younger queen, but he must also keep a close eye on his padawan's virtue. 

And, oh, my, wouldn't Obi-Wan just go bonkers if he ever heard that! Automatically, the elder Jedi bolstered his mental shielding, an act that immediately triggered a tendril of a question through their link. 

Qui-Gon simply sent a pulse of wordless reassurance, and the padawan turned his thoughts elsewhere. Catching a glimpse of the creamy expanse of Trell's one bare shoulder, the Master was pretty sure he knew exactly where those thoughts had turned, and slipped around behind the twin thrones to snare his apprentice's attention. 

The two stepped back into the shadows of the massive thrones, but their eyes never stopped their constant examination of all factors of the assembled crowd. 

"What is it, Master?" asked Obi-Wan, very softly. 

"Padawan," began Qui-Gon, and was surprised to find that he was having trouble finding the right words, "you did read the mission briefing before we arrived, didn't you?" 

"Of course, Master," replied the apprentice, obviously shocked that the question would even come up. 

"All of it?" 

"Yes, Master, all of it. Why?" 

"Then you understand that this occasion marks the formal celebration of both the coronation of the new queen, and the commencement of her betrothal." 

Obi-Wan sighed. "To the Faj-Maiguer. Yes, Master, I understand." 

"And do you understand what that means?" 

The apprentice sighed, and had to practically bite down on his tongue to prevent himself from answering with a very annoyed, "Duh!" Such a response, to a Jedi Master - even a wonderful, understanding, indulgent Jedi Master - would earn a punishment that didn't bear thinking about. "Betrothal is usually the prelude to marriage, Master." 

Huge, shadowed midnight eyes turned to regard the padawan mildly. "Are you being facetious, my young apprentice?" 

"I wouldn't dream of it, Master." 

"Do you know what 'faj-maiguer' means?" 

Now Obi-Wan squirmed slightly. "No, Master. There was no translation in the briefing documents." 

Qui-Gon nodded. "Then perhaps, my very sophisticated, very smug young padawan, you might make it your business to find out." 

Obi-Wan felt a soft pulse of rebuke across their bond and knew that he had managed to conceal exactly nothing from his Master. 

"Yes, Master, and I'm sorry." 

"Don't be sorry; be smart. And learn what there is to learn." 

When Qui-Gon would have turned away, the padawan restrained him briefly, with a thought. "Master," he said aloud, very softly, "what concerns you?" 

But the elder Jedi still couldn't say; he only knew that something was not as it appeared. "Be cautious, Young One. There is grave danger here, but I can't tell from which direction it will come." 

"But surely the Queen is the likely target, and . . ." 

The look in the Master's eyes stopped him cold. "And?" The prompt was as effective as a lecture. 

"And assumption is the mother of mistakes," said the boy, almost without thought. 

"Very good," said Qui-Gon, resisting the urge to ruffle those tempting red-gold spikes. In present circumstances, Obi-Wan would undoubtedly be mortified. "Now, go back to your post, and make none." 

Obi-Wan nodded and almost winced when he felt Force fingers card through his hair. 

 

*************** ****************** **************** 

 

The evening progressed well and without incident, and both Master Qui-Gon and his padawan, utilizing skills learned at diplomatic functions on dozens of different worlds, captivated new acquaintances with charm and consideration, for the most part. There seemed to be a few pockets of surliness among the crowd, but nothing so overt or extreme as to seem threatening. 

When the cocktail hour ended, and the first round of dancing was done, dinner was announced, and Obi-Wan found himself seated between Trell - who insisted, much to his chagrin, on feeding him slices of jerhera melon - and Maliyah, first daughter of Queen Nemis' second daughter and second in line to the throne. 

She was very like Trell in some ways, sharing the same coloring and stature and the same grace, but very different in others, projecting a brooding quality in eyes that seemed darker, and carrying herself in a manner that was almost a challenge. 

On her other side, sat a young man with exceedingly dark eyes and hair, and skin tinted golden brown by hours obviously spent under the sun's brilliance. This was sufficiently rare on Kyri to merit a second glance. But when Obi-Wan availed himself of the opportunity to look again, he found that the subject of his stare was looking back, and in a manner that was none too friendly. 

"I know you," said the young man bluntly, "though I doubt you'd remember. The great and mighty Jedi, and all." 

Obi-Wan was quiet for a moment, reaching for just the faintest wisp of Force enhancement. "The Senate Building," he said finally. "You were a guest of the Alderaan contingent during the capitol outlay debate last year." 

The young man was obviously surprised. "I'm shocked," he said broadly. "You barely seemed to notice." 

"No more than you did, Sir," Obi-Wan answered. 

"Ahh, yes," came the response, as the young man lifted his wineglass in a mocking toast, "but there are entirely too few Jedi in our glorious Republic, and we must revere the few we have." 

Obi-Wan chuckled, although something about this conversation was making him very uncomfortable. "Reverence is hardly justified," he replied, taking a sip of his own wine. "Just respect, when it has been earned." 

"And has it?" There was definitely a challenge in the tone now. 

"Oh, puh-leeze," said Trell sharply. "Obi-Wan, this impudent, argumentative, generally unpleasant type, who is apparently determined to ruin my party all by himself, is my cousin, Roque. You can either shake his hand or run him through with your lightsaber; I really don't care which. Of course, if you kill him, I'll have the rather tiresome task of appointing a new Senator to send to Coruscant." 

Roque's smile was withering, although Trell remained unwithered. "Charming to the bitter end, Cuz," he said sharply. Nevertheless, he did extend one tan, sinewy hand to Obi-Wan, who shook it somewhat gingerly. 

"The bitter end?" asked the apprentice, turning toward Trell. 

She nodded in a very matter-of-fact manner. "Seems really strange that Roque and I will only have two more days to trade insults, and we're so good at it. Pity, really." 

"Why will you have only two more days?" 

Trell turned huge eyes, almost haunted now, towards him. "Because I will reside in the Dower House following my coronation." 

"Yes," said Obi, sipping again at his wine. "And?" 

She regarded him for a moment in silence, apparently debating her answer, but when she spoke she said very little. "Roque will reside elsewhere." 

"Along with the rest of the kriffing world," muttered the cousin. 

Maliyah, having observed the exchange in general - and Obi-Wan's confusion in particular - smiled and leaned forward. "You obviously don't understand what that means, young Jedi." 

He could only admit to being slightly bewildered. Maliyah nodded. "It's not something we speak of widely to off-worlders. Some of them tend to be somewhat judgmental, shall we say?" 

He smiled, and nodded. "Slightly, perhaps." 

Trell was busy gazing down into her wineglass, while her cousin spoke softly. "In two days, Trell will be crowned. In two years, she will be married, which will change nothing, of course. For once she is crowned, she will spend the rest of her life ruling Kyri, until it is time for her to withdraw from the throne. She will live in seclusion, virtually alone, until that time." 

Obi-Wan allowed his eyes to linger on Trell's face and could not grasp what he was hearing. Surely they didn't mean . . . No. It was not possible; she would, after all, have daughters. At least two of them. And she would have a husband. It made no sense. 

Trell looked up at him, and he knew - as he had known earlier that day - that she had heard his thought. Obviously, though untrained and erratic, her Force abilities were considerable. 

She smiled gently. "Come, my Jedi," she said softly, "and we will eat and drink and laugh and make silly jokes. And later we will dance, and you will take me for a walk in the silver of the moonlight. And I will tell you a story - a story of a beautiful princess, living a life of loneliness in her great tower, waiting for the coming of her prince." 

He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw the brightness of tears in her eyes as she lowered her lashes. When she spoke again, it was so soft, he almost didn't hear her. "Will you be my prince, Obi-Wan? Will you take me away?" 

He found, finally, that he simply could not answer. 

When he turned aside, he looked up to find his Master's eyes, dark with sympathy, trained on him, waiting only to be asked. 

Obi-Wan looked away and retreated from his Master's call. For some reason - something he could not yet grasp - he wished only to dwell in silence, with only the blasted confusion of his thoughts for company. 

 

************** ***************** ************ 

 

Due to the serious nature of the threats against the royal pair, the question of dancing with either of the ladies was easily resolved; only the Jedi were considered suitable partners. 

Except for two instances, which developed independent of security concerns, much to the disgust of the younger Jedi. 

The first time, Obi-Wan had simply turned to fend off the over-eager advances of the wife of one of the elder Queen's advisory staff - a formidable woman dressed in a poisonous shade of green who seemed completely fascinated by the cleft in the padawan's chin, and, when he turned back, Trell was being spun across the dance floor in the arms of her cousin, Roque. One look at the gloating expression on the Kyrian's face informed the Jedi that the maneuver had been deliberate, taking advantage of both the padawan's momentary distraction and the young queen's obvious impatience with the restrictions placed upon her. 

If Roque had expected Obi-Wan to be too embarrassed or intimidated to act, he had been doomed to disappointment. The young Jedi had simply walked forward, pulled Trell from the circle of her cousin's arms, and finished the dance with her, offering her the option to sit down, if she so chose. 

Her smile for her cousin had been slightly apologetic, but the one she had turned on Obi-Wan had been brilliant. 

The second incident was less blatant, but, somehow, more ominous. 

Trell's dress was crusted with lace and gems, with a pearl-covered clasp at one shoulder, and, as she and Obi-Wan circled the dance floor, laughing into each other's eyes, one of the stones snagged in the braid of his jacket sleeve, and they were forced to pause while he worked it loose. When Trell giggled, noting that it really wouldn't do at all for him to pull the wrong thread and reduce her to toplessness before assorted royalty and heads of state, Obi-Wan had managed - only by prodigious effort - to avoid blushing. 

He was still involved in freeing the recalcitrant bead when he heard a soft gasp from his companion, and looked up to meet the emerald gaze of a youth with a face like an Iegan angel. Reflexively, the Jedi's hand went to his lightsaber, but Trell's - incredibly - was there first, soothing his concerns without saying a word. 

"Hello, Joa'am," she said softly. "I didn't think you'd come." 

"I hadn't intended to," he replied, in a voice hoarse with emotion. "I couldn't stay away." 

Her eyes were suddenly darker than Obi-Wan had ever seen them. "This is my protector," she said to the new arrival. "My Jedi defender." 

Joa'am nodded in Obi-Wan's direction, but never took his eyes from her face. "You look lovely, Trell. Every inch a queen." 

She laughed, but it was not a joyful sound. "That's hardly a compliment, coming from you." 

"Dance with me," he asked. 

Obi-Wan stiffened, and took a half-step forward, finally managing to free his sleeve from the offending jewel. 

"It's all right," she reassured the Jedi. "We grew up together." 

But Obi-Wan was not convinced, and shook his head. 

"It is all right," she insisted, "and we'll stay right here, within arm's reach. OK?" 

Finally, reluctantly, Obi-Wan agreed, and she moved into the young man's arms easily, as if she had been there many times before. The dance was brief, as the music ended quickly, and Joa'am, dropping a quick kiss on the top of her head, moved away, with a nod toward the young Jedi.

They had not exchanged a single word as they danced, but Obi-Wan had seen the sheen of tears in the youth's extraordinarily brilliant eyes as he turned to depart. 

"I need some air," said Trell. "Walk with me in the gardens." 

"All right," he answered, "if you'll tell me who that young man really is." 

She smiled. "Then come and we'll speak of many things. I'll tell you my secrets, and you tell me yours." 

Obi-Wan nodded, and managed to attract his Master's attention to let him know where they were going. Momentarily, Qui-Gon looked less than thrilled with the idea, but there was no real rational reason to object, so he subsided with just a cautionary look on his face. 

As the young couple made their way out into the loveliness of the Kyrian evening, neither gave any indication that they noted the gazes that followed them with such great interest. 

The gardens of the palace were exactly as one would have expected - spectacularly beautiful, exquisitely designed, marvelously executed, and, in the end, much to his surprise, Obi-Wan found that he thought them just a hair too perfect. Suddenly, he wished for an unsightly weed, or a shrub that was just a bit on the unkempt side. 

To his surprise, Trell laughed. "And what about me? Should one eye droop just slightly? Or maybe I need a bump on my nose." 

His smile was warm. "I think I'll just settle for perfection, in your case." 

"Am I?" she asked. 

He leaned against a broad, carved railing and looked down into the pristine glow of a reflecting pool. "You know you are," he answered. "How long have you been able to do that?" 

"Pick up stray thoughts? For as long as I can remember. It used to drive my mother wild." 

"Will I meet your mother?" he asked. 

"My mother's dead," she said flatly. "She died without completion, in a riding mishap." 

He sighed. "I'm sorry, Trell; I didn't know. So you're an only child. No brother." 

She nodded. "Very good. You obviously studied up on our culture. Do you always do that, before you go on a mission?" 

"Always." 

She leaned close beside him, her bare shoulder pressed against his arm, and gazed up into his eyes. "Do you find me beautiful, Obi?" 

He smiled. "You're the mindreader. You tell me." 

"All right. I'm seeing a deep, irresistible desire, to kiss me." 

He drew a deep breath. "Very perceptive." 

"Then why don't you?" 

"Because," he said softly, not quite able to pull his eyes away from bee-stung lips, "if I'm kissing you, I can't pay attention to protecting you." 

She looked around the lovely garden, which was completely peaceful, and swept a hand in a circular motion. "There are no threats here. And even if there were, there's a safe cubby right there." 

"A what?" 

She gestured toward a narrow, decorative tower, located at the corner of the terrace. "A safe cubby. Despite its fragile appearance, that little structure could stand up under fire from an ion cannon, and, once it's locked down, it absolutely can not be opened without the proper security codes." 

Obi-Wan stared at the slender obelisk. "Tight fit," he observed. 

"Built for one," she replied. "And totally impregnable." 

"Good to know," he replied. 

"So . . ." 

"So what?" 

Her sigh was just slightly exasperated. "So, are you going to kiss me, or am I going to have to do all the work myself?" 

He lowered his eyes, staring out into the night. "Why don't you tell me about Joa'am instead?" 

A spike in her Force aura definitely indicated that she was growing annoyed, but, somehow, the young Jedi thought the question might be important. 

"Joa'am was my first love," she laughed, but the sound was bittersweet. "He wanted . . . Well, it doesn't matter what he wanted. It's all quite impossible." 

"Why?" 

She looked off into the night, and this time, he was quite certain there was a gloss of unshed tears in her eyes. "Because I must be queen." 

"Tell me," he urged gently, "what does it mean. When your cousin said you'd live alone - what does it mean?" 

She turned to face him, and he felt a heaviness move within him as he read the desolation in her eyes. "It means just that, my Jedi. The queen of Kyri has only one purpose, only one interest, only one duty. No distractions, no extraneous issues. She rules Kyri and owes no allegiance to anything or anyone but her people." 

"But you'll have a husband and children. How . ." 

"My husband," she answered, "will be the 'faj maigeur'." 

"Yes, but what does that mean?"? 

She was silent for a minute, choosing her words. "The rough translation would be 'the price of peace', or, more accurately, perhaps, 'he who ransoms peace'. I, on the other hand, will be the 'faj daigrei', 'she who forges peace'." 

"I'm sorry. I don't understand." 

She nodded. "I thought not. My 'husband' will be Vilioth, completely incompatible, physically, psychologically, in every way. But our legal union, pathetic as it is, will serve to maintain the peace between our peoples. Before this arrangement was worked out to end a self-perpetuating war, over 300 cycles ago, both races were facing possible extinction. Now, they squabble , but they maintain open communication, because of the marriage. If either population violates the terms of the agreement, then the life of the 'faj' is forfeit." 

Obi-Wan didn't bother trying to conceal his confusion. "Then, if you're not compatible, how . . " 

"It's all done in a laboratory," she answered. "I'll never actually endure a pregnancy or give birth to a child. My ova will be harvested, combined with sperm from a suitable donor, and there you have it. My daughters will be raised by other family members, Maliyah, perhaps, or even by servants. Not exactly your typical close family, at any rate." 

He heard something in her voice, and turned to study her face closely. "You don't want to be queen," he said slowly. "Do you?" 

She sighed. "What I want is immaterial. There's no provision in the law, for refusing the crown. I've spent my whole life getting ready for this; it's what I was born for." 

"But it's not what you want." He was amazed at how certain he was. 

"Would you?" she asked, her voice suddenly harsh, almost strident. "To live alone, never to know love, or companionship, never to be touched or cherished. Would you want that?" 

"I'm Jedi," he replied. "There are similarities." 

"You're Jedi, by choice," she answered. "I will be queen, because I was born into a prison I can't escape." 

"Have you tried?" he asked, suddenly feeling cold inside. 

She stared at him, and there was a darkness in her eyes. "You're asking me if I had anything to do with these threats." 

"It's a reasonable question," he answered, refusing to be intimidated by her tone. 

She huffed a soft laugh. "You really don't want to kiss me, do you? Keep it up, and I'll be ready to take a swing at you instead." 

He smiled. "Guess I'll take that as a 'no'." 

"So, anyway," she continued, "I have two days before I'm locked away into a cloistered existence, which will last until my own granddaughter is of age to assume the throne. Two days, in which I need to cram a lifetime of the joys of life. So I'm going to ask you one final time; would you like to kiss me?" 

He straightened and looked down into eyes that were now reflecting the sweep of the heavens and was absolutely lost. 

It started as a gentle brush of soft lips, but deepened quickly, until she was crushed against his body, both of them knowing nothing beyond the flame growing between them, each tasting the sweetness and heady warmth of young desire. 

Until a sharp bright thrill of warning flared in his mind; the Force, screaming in his consciousness. 

From nowhere, from shadows that had been nothing but empty only moments before, figures rushed forward, weapons in hand. 

Obi-Wan wasted no time with a verbal warning; his lightsaber was in his hand, ignited, before he had completed his turn, and Trell was propelled toward the tower at the corner of the terrace by a prodigious Force push, as he moved behind her, deflecting blaster fire as he covered her retreat. 

"What about you?" she shouted, crouched and racing for shelter. 

"Stop worrying about me," he replied. "I can defend myself better, once you're safe." 

As she ducked into the protective structure, reaching for the locking mechanism, there was a sudden flash of actinic brilliance from within the ballroom, followed by the unmistakable WHUMP of a sizeable concussion. 

The apprentice continued to deflect blaster fire, as he made sure Trell was secure before sending a pulse through the training bond to find his Master. 

_Master?_

_I'm fine, Padawan,_ came the hurried response. _But there is much confusion, and I must locate the Queen. Is Trell safe?_

Obi-Wan dodged a snap shot from off to his left and was conscious, for just a moment, of a vague sense of uncertainty, as if - once more - something was not as it seemed. He continued to deflect incoming blaster shots, but was careful to do so in a way that would not cause mortal wounds to his attackers. Strangely, despite the fact that they were shooting at him, he detected no great buzz of hostility within the Force. 

_So far,_ he responded finally. _But, when you can spare a minute, do you think you could send some security forces out here? So far, I'm holding my own, but eight to one odds are a bit extreme, don't you think?_

_What?_

The padawan allowed himself a small smile as he heard the alarm in his Master's mental voice, and maybe that tiny distraction was his one mistake. As he continued to fend off the eight attackers that fired on him from the shadows, his lightsaber weaving complex patterns in the night, he failed to notice the one silent figure that slipped from the darkness behind the structure where Trell was protected, not until the sharp, exquisite agony of the vibro-shiv's penetration flared in his back, and bright blossoms of color obscured his vision, before he spiraled down into a warm welcoming nothingness, sparing only a moment to wonder how anyone had managed to sneak up on him. 

In the meantime, Qui-Gon felt the scarlet blast of pain through the training bond and was assailed with an anguish only a Master - or a parent - could understand. 

_Obi-Wan?_

Only silence through the bond, following that initial bolt of pain. 

His apprentice was hurt - badly he feared - but his duty was clear; the queen's safety was his first responsibility. With a silent prayer to the Force to care for his precious padawan, he moved forward into the chaos of the aftermath of the explosion, to perform his duty as a Jedi. 

It was very cold comfort. 

************ ****************** *****************

The darkness was very thick, like heavy, black smoke, but it smelled somehow warm, almost sweet and coppery. And there was a curious reverberation that seemed to ring through it, accentuating the rhythmic thump in his head. 

Dark and heavy, but somewhere - very near - there was an exquisite sharpness, a flaming torment that would pierce his darkness, if he let it, just as easily as it had pierced bone and sinew. 

Better to hug the darkness; better to refuse to hear the sibilant drone that was, at first, just a meaningless buzz, until sounds became words. Still meaningless, if one remained in a fugue state, but recognizable at some level. 

"Mumble, mumble - damn, damn, damn! Who knew . . ." 

"Too fast. Never saw any . . . like that." 

" . . . remembered. Kid or not, he's Jedi, and . . ." 

Then came a bolt of pure agony as something heavy and solid connected with the back of a head that already felt as if someone had used it as a bass drum. 

"Don't kill him, you fool! You want the Jedi here for . . ." 

" . . . won't ever back off if we kill one of . . ." 

" . . locked tight. I can't . . ." 

" . . too much blood. He doesn't look so good. Why'd you stick him with . . ." 

Then, from much farther away - the depths of space, maybe, or a moon, at least - came a flurry of sounds and voices and rough shouts, followed by the unmistakable clatter of running feet, and, nearer at hand, scuffling sounds, a few grunts, and - finally - hoarse curses. 

"It's no use; it'll never open. Let's go." 

"But . . ." 

"If they catch us, it's all over. Now let's go." 

Obi-Wan winced. He didn't usually mind if the neighbors got a little rowdy; he had, after all, been known to achieve rowdiness himself, once or twice in his past. But they were really, really pushing it by being so loud! 

He should just get up and march over there, and tell them . . .tell them . . . it was suddenly, beautifully quiet, and he found that he now had no idea what he wanted to tell . . or who he wanted to tell it to. 

He sighed and settled back into the lovely, warm cradle of sleep, except that it wasn't so warm any more. In fact, it was becoming downright cold. Well, wasn't that just perfect! Once the yelling had finally stopped, something else just had to crop up to keep him from resting comfortably. He was really beginning to be annoyed. 

And cold! 

What else, he wondered - semi-coherent - would happen to keep him from the sleep he so desperately needed; the sleep that called to him like the sweet song of a siren, beckoning him into lands of dark warm delights, from which he might never want to return. 

The chill was growing worse, and he knew that he would have to get up soon, to fetch a blanket or light a fire, perhaps. Soon. He would do that soon. But, for now, if he just pulled his body tight around his center and held himself close, he would stave off the creeping cold, for a bit longer. He would just catch a nap now, ignoring a numbness that was creeping over him. Maybe that would turn out to be a good thing; it would keep him from noticing the cold so much. 

*************** ***************** 

 

Lord Kaffia was kind enough to take the Queen in hand, once she had been extracted from the sheltered space beneath the banquet table where Qui-Gon had shoved her when the bomb went off. She was disheveled and dusty and bruised, but mostly, she was simply infuriated - loudly, abusively, verbally infuriated. 

Until she was informed of the attempt on the Princess, at which point she grew subdued and fearful. 

The bomb, which had - for some unknown reason - exploded near the exterior wall, by the terrace doors, had collapsed that section of the ballroom, blocking all exits on that face of the building. Therefore, to get to the terrace, it was necessary to follow a somewhat circuitous route through the palace to arrive at a service entrance on a lower level, which opened on a path leading up into the formal gardens. 

Later, hard questions would be posed, concerning the positions of the Royal Guards, but for now, no one took the time to worry about anything but getting to the site of the attack, and learning the fate of the queen-to-be and the young man charged with defending her life. 

The Jedi Master would have moved through the corridors at a greatly accelerated speed, except that it proved impossible. With the explosion, the palace had gone automatically into a heightened security mode, meaning that forcefields had been activated at various critical intersections throughout the building, and each had to be deactivated with an appropriate code to gain access to the next section. 

Thus, by the time he cleared the final obstacle and raced out into the night, both Lord Kaffia and the Queen were just steps behind him, along with a sizeable contingent of Kyrian security. However, since none of them were blessed with the ability to call on the Force to augment natural strength, it was only the Jedi Master who gathered himself and leapt straight up to the terrace railing, some six meters off the ground. 

Though there was no light now coming from the rubble of the ballroom, there was still the multi-hued brilliance of the security fields, augmented by the solid glow of two of the planet's six moons. The terrace, therefore, though not awash in light, was not steeped in shadow either. 

But even had it been pitch black, he would have known - his steps would have been no less certain, for the strength and warmth that was his padawan beckoned to him as clearly as if it had been composed of light itself, which, in a sense, it was. No one that he had ever known was so much a being of light as his padawan. 

And now, his wonder child lay in a pool of his own blood, a pool that was already frighteningly wide, and still spreading rapidly. 

One quick flick of his consciousness noted that Trell was unharmed, although certainly panicked, and the Master wasted no time on trying to free her from the confines of the tower. Instead, he dropped to his knees, and quickly ran the palms of his hands down the length of Obi-Wan's body. 

Qui-Gon was no healer, but his strength in the Living Force was, perhaps, the next best thing. While he had not the skill to repair whatever damage had been done, he did have sufficient strength to bolster the body's ability to heal itself. Undoubtedly, Obi would require treatment by a team of physicians, but, until they were on hand to see to his needs, his Master would simply have to do. 

With the ease of long practice, Qui-Gon allowed his mind to slip into the first layer of meditation, even as he opened himself to the power of the Force, while simultaneously drawing his apprentice, face-down, across his lap, so that the wound lay beneath his hands. He crossed his palms across the deep puncture, that was still pulsing bright red, and sought to center his consciousness. Tendrils of Force energy moved under the direction of his thoughts, and cut away the boy's jacket, and then the shirt that obstructed access to the injury; the shirt then, folded and refolded, drifted into the Master's hands, and he used it as a pad to press into the ugly wound. 

Dimly, Qui-Gon was aware of the arrival of Lord Kaffia and the Queen, both of whom were shocked and appalled at the sheer volume of blood that obscured the stone surface on which Obi-Wan had lain. The Master was slightly more aware when the Security personnel succeeded in freeing Trell, allowing her to drop to her knees at the youth's side, sobbing incoherently, as crimson stains were absorbed into the silk splendor of her ball gown. But he could not afford to spare any real attention for anything other than his efforts to save his apprentice. 

Obi-Wan was very weak; the blood that still welled from the wound was bright and fresh - arterial - and time was very short. 

The Master forced himself to remain calm. Despite his best efforts, he was losing his hold on the bright essence of his student, and now, he knew only one other thing to try. 

_Obi-Wan!_

There was only a soft absence of sound, but it was not exactly total silence; it was almost a sensation of bated breath, moving steadily further away. 

_Obi-Wan, answer me!_

Now the absence of sound became a soft murmuring, like water rushing across stones. But there was still no real sense of a mind in attendance. 

Qui-Gon sighed and opened himself further, allowing full display of everything in his heart. He didn't remember ever being quite so defenseless, but knew, instinctively, that he had only this one option, and it was still a gamble. 

_Obi-Wan, come back to me. I need you, Padawan. Please, stay with me._

Abruptly, the Jedi Master shivered, in spite of the seasonal warmth of the night air. Something or someone was uncomfortably chilled. 

Maintaining the pressure he was exerting on his student's wound, Qui-Gon used Force energy to remove his own short formal cape to wrap around Obi-Wan's bare torso. 

_Come, Padawan. Answer me._

There was just a faint breath, that might have been a word. 

_Cold._

_I know, Child, and I want to warm you, but you must help me. Together, there's nothing we can't do._

_Cold, and tired._

Suddenly, there was a bright spiral of energy, spinning through the Force, and the jackets of three security personnel, plus the bright shawl of the Kyrian Queen, were layered around the boy, and tucked in by Trell's small hands, which then settled atop the Master's large ones, adding her strength and her will to his. 

And Qui-Gon heard something he had heard only very few times in his life, a voice in his mind that was not that of either his own Master or his padawan. 

_Obi, please, come back to us._

The Master renewed his attempt to reach out and clasp the consciousness of his padawan, and noted, only in passing, a tiny shadow of something ominous in the girl's bright persona. 

_Obi-Wan, you must reach out to me. I can only catch you, if you reach back._

He waited, conscious of a warmth spreading outward from his hands, and felt . . . a stirring. 

_Obi-Wan! I'm right here._

_Master?_

The elder Jedi managed - just barely - not to sob out loud. _Yes, Padawan?_

 _Please stop yelling!_

Qui-Gon and Trell both laughed softly. _Very well, my very bossy young padawan. The physicians will be here soon, and I'll gladly stop yelling if you'll only help me to help you. Focus on your wound now, Obi. Focus on healing your injury._

_I'm sleepy._

_I know, and soon you can sleep as long as you like, but right now . . ._

There was a definite sigh, audible through the bond, followed by a clearly recognizable tone of grumpiness. _Okay, but just for a minute._

As it turned out, a minute was all that was required, for the emergency medical team arrived with great fanfare, bustling and making a great deal of noise, man-handling resuscitation equipment which was, ultimately, not required. 

Brilliant, sea-green eyes opened slightly, in obvious annoyance, and a surprisingly steady cultured voice asked, "Doesn't anybody around here know how to do anything quietly?" 

Qui-Gon huffed gentle laughter as he gathered his padawan into his arms, and took a few deep, shaky breaths. The boy would need a few hours in a bacta tank, which was not going to make him happy, but the bleeding had subsided to a trickle, and the wound was already beginning to heal. 

Much to the disgust of the leading physician, who shook his head balefully as he examined the apprentice. "You Jedi could put us out of business, you know, and I could probably charge you for practicing medicine without a license." 

Recognizing the tone immediately, Qui-Gon smiled. He was reminded of a certain cranky, ill-mannered, terminally bossy healer who usually ruled the Jedi temple with an iron hand; the gruffness was a tool for concealing a terribly vulnerable well of compassion. 

"Sorry to trespass on your territory, Doctor, but it seemed a good idea at the time." 

The physician, tall, lanky, with huge amber eyes and a long neck, wore a name tag that identified him as Dr. Gercian. His weary smile was somewhat rueful. "Yeah, well, just don't let it happen again." 

"He will be all right, won't he?" 

Gercian took a moment to listen to the rhythm of Obi-Wan's heartbeat before replying. "He appears to be recovering quickly, but he was very, very lucky." 

"Meaning?" 

The physician rose as his assistants gently transferred the apprentice to an anti-grav stretcher. "Meaning that the fact that his physiology is not quite 100% human standard almost got him killed. The variation allowed the blade to nick a major artery, and come within a hair's breadth of his heart." 

"Otherwise?" 

The physician shrugged. "It would have hurt like the devil, might have chewed up a bit of muscle. But beyond that, no real damage." 

The Master stood for a moment, apparently lost in thought, as his apprentice was swaddled in thick, fluffy blankets. 

The boy was only marginally conscious, but he was aware enough to extract a hand from the cocoon in which they had wrapped him, and grasp at Qui-Gon's sleeve. 

"I'm right here, Padawan," the elder Jedi said softly, covering the slender fingers with his own wide palm. "You're going to be fine." 

"Trell?" It was barely a whisper. 

When Qui-Gon would have answered, the princess stepped in quickly, and provided a response that was much more memorable than mere words, by pressing soft lips against the padawan's mouth, completely ignoring the Master's obvious discomfort and whispering something in Obi-Wan's ear that was obviously meant only for his hearing. 

Sea-change eyes flared open briefly, before drifting closed again, as sleep took him into its welcome softness, but this time, it was real sleep; healing sleep, rather than the black void of unconsciousness. 

Nevertheless, as reality receded, he knew that there was something - something important that he needed to share with his Master, something about . . .something that might change everything . . . something . . . 

 

************* ****************** ******************* 

Gercian, the Kyrian physician, stood before the bacta tank, arms folded, trying for a look of solemnity. Mostly though, he only managed to look annoyed. 

"You know," he said sharply, "if I could bottle whatever it was that you did to him . . ." 

"You'd be a very rich man," replied Qui-Gon, with a disingenuous smile. "Yes, I know." 

"I don't suppose it's something you could teach." 

The Master was forced to grin in response to the young physician's brazen attitude. "Afraid not." 

Gercian sighed. "Didn't think so." 

Qui-Gon turned and gazed up into the rosy liquid in which his padawan floated and was confronted with two very sharp, very belligerent, very blue-green eyes. Obi-Wan, obviously, was no longer in pain; was aware that his injury had been healed; and was no more patient being submerged in this tank, than in any of the other dozen or so he had visited in the course of his young life. 

"Still," continued the physician, looking around at the luxury suite in which the tank had been placed, "it was almost worth it. Never thought I'd get a chance to see the inside of the palace. He must really rate, to have a bacta tank hauled in here just for him." 

Qui-Gan took a deep breath. "Doctor, Jedi do not rate, but he was injured in the defense of the crown princess, and Queen Nemis was understandably grateful." 

The Kyrian turned back and looked up at the face of his patient and had to fight down an urge to fidget. "I thought Jedi were supposed to be calm, and all that." 

"Whenever possible," replied the Master. 

"Yeah, well, then why does he look like he's ready to throw an embolism or something?" 

Qui-Gon folded his arms into the sleeves of his cape - his normal, voluminous, slightly frayed, everyday cape, that felt so wonderful and soothing after the stiffness of his formal wear - and smiled. "He doesn't like bacta." 

The physician studied the fine-boned young face carefully. "I'd guess that would be an understatement," he said finally. "I'd guess he really hates it." 

The Master allowed his gaze to dwell on the rising impatience in his padawan's eyes before replying, "And you'd be exactly right. If you're quite sure that he's sufficiently healed, I suggest we get him out of there, while the tank is still in one piece." 

"He wouldn't!" gasped the physician, eyes growing wide and filling with something very like panic. 

Qui-Gon shrugged lightly. "Once on Fharsia Prime, there was an incident. Of course, the tank was old, and not one of the newer, stronger models, but he pretty much made kindling out of it." 

"Medic!" The physician's call with short and sharp. "Get the patient out of there right now!" 

The Master glanced once more into eyes the color of the seas of Alderaan, and concealed a grin when he spied the twinkle in them. _If I get a reputation for being a difficult patient, it's all your fault._

And the Master - completely charmed, but totally undone by the tone of innocence in that cultured voice - laughed aloud, inspiring the Kyrian physician to look at him with obvious suspicion. 

_Oh, no, my Padawan. That is one distinction you have managed to earn quite on your own, without benefit of a single lesson from me._

As Obi-Wan was lifted from the gelatinous fluid, Qui-Gon waited with a huge, fluffy towel. 

Both the medical technicians and the brash young physician seemed to sense, once the boy was free of the tank, that their services had become superfluous. Curiously, for someone so relentlessly brash up until that moment, the doctor took a moment to cup Obi-Wan's face with a remarkably gentle hand. "Rest," he said softly, "whether you think you need it or not." 

As he and his assistants made their exit from the luxurious suite, he glanced back to see his patient being handled as gently as if he had been made of the finest crystal. The Jedi Master, effortlessly, eased the boy into the lush linens of the over-sized bed, and then sat to finish drying the traces of bacta from the slender body. 

For his part, Obi-Wan was almost boneless with exhaustion, as he fought to keep his eyes open, wordlessly scowling his objection to being fussed over. 

"Master, I don't . . " 

"Hush!" 

Sea green eyes flared with indignation. "Hush?" 

"Hush!" The Master was calm and determined. "It's not often that I get the chance to take care of you these days. You appear to think you've outgrown it, but I haven't." 

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to reply smartly, but thought better of it when he glimpsed something very quiet, but very tender, in his Master's eyes, as Qui-Gon sighed and observed, "It never gets any easier, no matter how many times it happens." 

"Master," said the apprentice gently, "it's all right. We both know how it's supposed to be." 

Qui-Gon's huge hands braced his padawan's shoulders a bit too powerfully to be completely comfortable. "Nevertheless, it remains the most difficult task any Master ever faces, to do your duty when your heart wants nothing more than to race to the side of the most precious person in your life. I could have lost you last night, my padawan. I don't ever want to come any closer." 

"I know, but you didn't." Obi-Wan's was careful to keep his eyelids lowered, to conceal the suspicious fluid brightness in his eyes. 

The Master smiled. "If you're not careful, Queen Nemis is going to knight you and make you a royal consort. She's completely smitten, and that doesn't even begin to address how Trell feels about you." 

Obi-Wan's eyes, wide now and so marvelously expressive, darkened abruptly. "Master, she's very sad." 

"I know, Padawan. The life of the Queen of Kyri is not exactly the stuff that dreams are made of. She's spent her whole life being groomed for this, and if you're thinking that you should respond to her despair, by trying to help her find a way out . . " 

"No, Master. I know that, but it's hard not to . . ." 

Qui-Gon reached out and gently tilted the boy's face up until Obi-Wan met his gaze. "She's very pretty, Obi-Wan, and very vulnerable, and that makes it doubly hard to refrain from trying to help." 

The boy nodded. "But it's not my job to interfere." 

"No, it's not, but it's also very difficult to resist a lovely young woman who is - not to put too fine a point on it - coming on to you." 

Obi-Wan almost did a double take. "Coming on to me?" 

The Master chuckled. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed?" 

And the padawan couldn't suppress a grin. "I noticed. Subtlety isn't exactly her strong suit." 

A tiny nuance of sympathy touched the Master's face. "She doesn't have time to be subtle." Once more, he studied his student's face. "These few days are her only chance to create a few memories that she can hold on to for all those long, lonely years, and I understand how she feels. But I don't want you to be the one who gets hurt in all this, Padawan. Understand?" 

There was a pensiveness in the boy's expression, even as he was nodding his agreement. "Master, there's something else. Something that's not - that I can't quite . ." 

Qui-Gon grinned. "Now that's frightening.When my ever articulate, ordinarily verbose apprentice is at a loss for words, the apocalypse must surely be at hand." 

"When we were attacked," said Obi-Wan, still very tentative, "it didn't feel right. From the very beginning, although the Force warned me of the attack, it didn't tell me that either of us was in mortal danger." He paused, and considered what he remembered. Then he took a deep breath, and lifted his eyes to meet those of his Master. "They weren't trying to kill us," he said finally. "Either of us, and the blaster shots, which were set on stun, were all - all - aimed at me. Trell was never a target." 

The Master's eyes were gentle, but very firm. "Are you sure, Obi-Wan? Think carefully, and be sure." 

Once more, the boy allowed his mind to replay the events that had occurred on the terrace. 

"I'm sure, Master. Whatever they were trying to do, they never meant to harm Trell." 

The Master was quiet as he tucked blankets around his padawan's shoulders. "You need to rest," he said softly, "and I need to clear my head and try to figure out what's happening here." 

"Something's not right in all this," observed Obi-Wan, around a yawn. 

Qui-Gon bent forward, and dropped a kiss on his apprentice's forehead. "Ever the master of understatement, my padawan, as befitting such an icon of culture." 

Obi-Wan sighed, and gave himself up to the absolute luxury of plush bed linens and the somnolence induced by his Master's nuance of Force compulsion. It was time to give in to the irresistible urge to sleep, an urge made so much easier to accept with Qui-Gon's gentle fingers stroking the silken length of his padawan braid. 

He remembered the whispered words just as the sweet darkness closed around him, and they meshed seamlessly into his dreams.

"I need you," she'd said, "to help me make my memories." 

And he found, immediately, that he needed her, to help him make his dreams. 

 

*************** ************** *************

Technically, it was still night when he was awakened by a sense of gentle warmth, and the taste of nectar on his lips. Still gripped by the desire to simply roll over and dip back into the lovely pool of slumber, he extended his tongue to moisten his mouth and got another taste of ambrosial sweetness. 

At that point, there was no more somnolence; he came awake completely and stared into a radiant face, crowned by a mop of auburn curls. 

"Thank the Mother," laughed Princess Trell. "I actually thought I was going to have to haul you out of that bed to wake you up." 

Obi-Wan jerked away from her, and found himself braced against the headboard, nested among a deep plush assortment of pillows and blankets. "What are you doing here?" 

She twisted herself around until she was seated beside him, managing - somewhat miraculously - not to spill the contents of the tray balanced on her knees. "Refusing to waste a single minute of my last full day of freedom; that's what I'm doing here." 

"Trell," he said, slightly hoarse and very aware of the fact that she wasn't wearing very much, but then again, neither was he. "I don't think you should be here." 

Apparently completely unbothered by his concern, she leaned forward and tipped a fluted glass to his lips, so that he could choose either to swallow or to choke. 

"Nonsense," she replied. "You're not hurt any more, are you?" 

"No, but . . ." 

"And they didn't drug you up, did they?" 

"No, but . . ." 

She wiggled closer, and leaned over him, bracing her arms against his chest. "Then did you just decide that you don't like me anymore?" 

Abruptly, he relaxed into a grin, as she poured more liquid into his mouth. "Not likely, and what is that that you're corrupting me with?" 

She chuckled. "Corrupting you? Ummm, I could get used to that idea. It's called vianessque - a very fine, very rare liqueur, made from the fruit of the essque-nonque tree, which only grows in very cold climates, of which there are very few on Kyri. So the supply is very limited, and it's very expensive." 

Obi-Wan licked his lips and couldn't quite figure out why his entire mouth felt slightly numb. "It's also very strong," continued the princess. "Guaranteed to put you on your backside before you can say . . ." her face contorted with confusion,"backside." 

"Ummm," purred the padawan, "it's sweet." 

Trell turned until she was snuggled inside the circle of his arms. "Like you." 

He looked down into her eyes and felt himself tugged toward a mindless oblivion as she lifted her face to press her lips against his; it would be so very easy to just let himself go. An acute awareness of his own state of undress - and hers - gave him the strength to push her away, gently but firmly. 

"Trell," he said softly, fighting to keep the room from spinning, "I can't . . ." 

She sat up abruptly, and huffed a huge sigh. "I should have known." 

Strangely, she didn't really sound angry, just resigned. "Known what?" 

She fixed him with a pseudo-outraged glare. "All the beautiful ones are either married, gay, or Jedi." 

The apprentice laughed, and, acting solely on impulse, grabbed her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "You are so lovely," he said, suddenly confident and with no trace of embarrassment, "and, under other circumstances, I'd find you . . ." 

"Yes, yes," she urged, grinning now. "You'd find me what?" 

"Irresistible," he laughed. 

Bright mischief flared in her eyes. "Tell me about my eyes." 

"Like stars," he assured her, choking back a snicker, "in the evening sky." 

"And my lips?" 

"Like the petals of the crimson lillum, perfect and dew-kissed." 

She pursed her mouth in a perfect pout. "Not exactly the kind of kiss I had in mind." 

He grinned and leaned in for a quick peck, accompanied by a loud smack. 

Her laughter was soft and very sweet, but then she sobered, and looked up at him from beneath incredibly long, thick sooty lashes. "Do you know what I really want from you, Obi-Wan?" 

He smiled, and took her hands in his. "No, but why don't you tell me? The real truth, now. Not all this seduction garbage you've been tossing around." 

Her eyes grew huge and very bright. "Very perceptive, my Jedi. And you're right, in a way. Although I do admit to being a little curious." 

He nodded. "Me too." 

She lifted one gentle hand to touch his face. "I think it might have been very sweet, between us. If we'd had a chance to get a little older." 

When she leaned forward this time and lifted her face, their lips touched and savored a sweet tenderness that both would remember for the rest of their lives. 

"Now," he said gently, as he leaned back against his pillows, "tell me what you really want." 

"I want," she said, drawing a deep breath, "to be a kid, for one day." 

"A kid? How do you mean?" 

She pulled her knees up and sat with her arms wrapped around them, and Obi-Wan thought she was more beautiful in that moment than he had ever seen her, with her hair a tumbled mess, and no make-up, and her eyes still slightly sleep-crusted, and her sumptuous gowns replaced with a somewhat ratty pair of cut off pajamas, and he was forced to observe - with a wry twinge of irony - that it was probably a very good thing that, for all her sophistication in the ways of governing a world, she was still a babe-in-arms romantically; otherwise, he wasn't sure he could have managed to exert his self-control quite so firmly. As it was, he had excellent reason to be grateful for plentiful layers of fluffy blankets. 

"What did you do, when you were a kid?" 

He shrugged. "I was in the Jedi creche. We did a lot of things." 

"Ever . . . climb a tree?" 

"Of course." He wasn't quite sure what she was getting at. 

"Go skinny-dipping?" 

"Sure?" 

"Skate, ski, hoverboard, play hockey or pass ball, rock climb, wind surf?" 

"All of the above," he answered. "Why?" 

She ducked her head, refusing now to meet his eyes. "Because I could never do those things. No one was ever willing to take a chance on me getting hurt." 

She looked up, and her eyes were brilliant with tears. "I've been a porcelain doll my whole life, Obi. And now - for one day, just one - I want to run, and play and climb and swim and do all those things I was never allowed to do. Will you run with me?" 

He clasped her fingers and squeezed very gently. "And what if you get hurt now?" 

She sighed, on the verge of tears. "Obi-Wan, every child should be allowed to be a child for one day of her life. That's all I'm asking - just one day. With you to show me and guide me and protect me. Will you?" 

He found that his voice had failed him, as he allowed the full sense of this lovely young woman to brush against his consciousness, to get inside the veneer he maintained against the encroachment of the general public, to touch him deep within. 

When he was able to speak, his tone was thick with emotion. "You'll be a wonderful queen." 

"Yes," she replied, with a bittersweet smile. "I will. Because I must. My family has been good for Kyri. Our people have prospered over the last three centuries, all because of the stability provided by my ancestors; I can do no less." 

Feeling the icy grip of loneliness within her, Obi-Wan put his arms around her, and they sat together, foreheads touching. 

Finally, he smiled. "All right, Milady. Today is the day in which you live out your childhood fantasies, and time's a wastin'. What do you want to do first?" 

She grinned, and produced a holovid control unit. "First, we're going to loll around in this great big wonderful bed, eating rellija berries, and mousch-spiced pastries and drinking vianessque, and watching blood-and-guts shoot-'em-ups on the adult holo-channels." 

The padawan was beaming. "I don't know if I can deal with such wanton behavior, but I'm willing, if you are." 

They collapsed against each other, breathless with laughter, and proceeded, as the night paled toward morning, to manage to get more berry juice and pastry crumbs on the bed than in their mouths and to imbibe a not inconsiderable amount of the honey-scented liqueur. 

Thus it was that the Queen of Kyri and Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn came face-to-face outside the door leading to the younger Jedi's bedroom, and, after discreet knocking produced no response, followed by less discreet knocking which still produced no response, followed finally by shouts and pounding, which still produced no response, with the Queen's consent, the Master applied a judicious Force push and plunged inside, hand clutching the hilt of his lightsaber. 

Both moved forward slowly, and paused as they approached the foot of the massive bed which dominated the room and stared down at the sight before them. 

Both princess and padawan were undoubtedly in the brightest flush of adolescence, probably awash with hormones, but they were also, beyond all doubt, still children, and it was as children that the two huddled together in the welter of blankets atop the oversized bed. The remains of their pre-dawn feast lay about them and a garish, loud, lurid holovid continued to flicker in the air above the foot of the bed, but neither Trell nor Obi-Wan was aware of it. 

He slept, sprawled back against a stack of pillows, one arm raised over his head, rellija berry juice staining his lower lip, the encroaching light of morning striking him at an oblique angle through the tall windows near the bed, and tinting his skin the shade of beaten gold, while striking glints of flame from his hair. 

Nestled within the circle of his other arm, pressed close against his chest, Trell smiled slightly in her sleep, her remarkable eyes concealed now under thick, spiky lashes, and her hair covering Obi-Wan's shoulder and even trailing silky strands across his face. Her arm was laid loosely across his torso, her hand clasping the tail of his braid. 

They were breathtakingly beautiful. 

Queen Nemis turned to face the Jedi Master, a faint gleam in her violet eyes. "Is this the part," she asked, very softly, "where I yell and scream and threaten to take a bull whip to him for 'ruining' my granddaughter?" 

"It might be," came the equally soft response, "if anything had happened here." 

The Queen smiled. "You needn't say it, Master Jedi," she replied. "I may have absolutely no Force sensitivity, but I know innocence when I see it." 

 

**************** ***************** *************** 

Unlike his Master, who tended to waken instantly, going from sound sleep to complete alertness in the blink of an eye, Obi-Wan preferred to return to consciousness slowly, by increments, taking advantage of delicious opportunities to slide back into the embrace of drowsiness; thus, his wakening, the second of this particular morning, was leisurely and languid, noting first the roseate glow of morning sun that bathed him in luxurious warmth. Next came the recognition that the lovely embrace he always enjoyed so much was slightly different today, having developed into a soft, yielding weight cradled in the hollow between his arm and his side, and the dim realization that the 'weight' in question was breathing gently, producing deliciously pleasant exhalations against his skin. 

He opened one eye - slightly - to look down at the angelic countenance almost obscured beneath a wild cloud of auburn hair, and to note - more distantly, standing back away from the bed, in an area not yet touched by the rising sun - his Master and Queen Nemis in quiet discussion. 

Ummm, this was really quite nice and cozy and very warm. 

And his Master? Queen Nemis? He and Trell, nestled together - _In bed._

Son of a Sith! 

He almost - almost (and thank the Force and whatever gods and deities that might be within hailing distance for a last second stroke of remembrance) leapt from the cover of the bed linens, dislodging his fellow nestling, before the recollection of his state of dress - or undress - stopped him cold. 

"Good morning, Padawan," said Qui-Gon, entirely too serene and undisturbed for this to be anything but a liqueur-induced hallucination. 

"Master," he replied, very neutral and pensive. 

The Queen moved to the side of the bed, leaned over and placed her palm on his forehead, in a gesture older than recorded time, reflecting parental concern. "How are you feeling, Young Jedi?" 

This, thought the padawan, is surreal. "Very well, your Majesty. Thank you." 

The Jedi Master joined the queen at the bedside. "I took the liberty of ordering first meal for the two of you," he said, with a smile. "I have an idea that you're going to need it." 

"We are?" 

The Queen reached out and smoothed a lock of her granddaughter's hair, just as Trell stirred and began to waken. "If you're very good," said Nemis, with a spark of mischief in her amethyst eyes, "I might one day tell you about the days leading up to my coronation." 

Abruptly, Obi-Wan laughed, recognizing a kindred spirit to that of the girl now smiling as she wakened in his arms. "Were you very wicked?" 

The Queen traced the line of his jaw with a gentle forefinger. "My grandmother once told me that she wondered how the monarchy survived the transition. It became the stuff of legend, only nobody dared talk about it." Her smile was brilliant. "One does not, after all, wish to offend the Queen." 

"Then you . . . ." 

Nemis then reached out, and cupped each face with one steady hand. "By the mother, you are both so exquisite, you quite take my breath away. And to answer your yet unspoken question, young Kenobi, I forbid you nothing, but recall that I hold you responsible for her safety. Other than that, this day belongs to the two of you, to spend as you see fit." 

Trell laughed, and stretched languidly, before rolling out of the bed. "In that case," she said, "last one in the pool is bantha fodder." And she was sprinting for the doorway as she spoke. 

Obi-Wan, moving to follow, was saved once more from total embarrassment, but this time it was a gentle Force push from his Master that made the difference. 

Qui-Gon's voice was gentle. "I realize, Padawan, that being labeled 'bantha fodder' approaches that old cliché - the fate worse than death - but I think you might wish to take just a moment and put on a pair of pants. Otherwise, there will be entirely new legendary stories about the young queen's coronation." 

Queen Nemis, with a tiny smile and a wink, turned her back as Obi-Wan divested himself of layers of bedding. 

The apprentice grinned abruptly. "But, Master, one of the things on her to-do list, is skinny-dipping." 

The elder Jedi managed - barely - not to sigh. "Obi-Wan, I believe that now would be an excellent time to review one of the most basic tenets of the Disciplines of Pragmatic Behavior." 

Obi-Wan frowned as he pulled on a pair of leggings, confusion flaring in his eyes. "The what?" 

Qui-Gon's smile was bright as he reached out and tucked the padawan braid behind his apprentice's ear. "Common sense, my padawan. To wit, sometimes, there are things that a Master simply does not want to know." 

Obi-Wan was silent for a moment, before breaking into bright peals of laughter. "I'll try to keep that in mind," he called, as he bolted for the door. 

The Queen of Kyri and the Master Jedi exchanged glances. 

"What do you suppose . . ." he started, with a rueful smile. 

But the Queen held up her hand abruptly. "I don't," she interrupted firmly, "and neither should you." 

 

***************** ****************** ***************** 

Lord Kaffia and Master Jinn sat before a bank of security monitors, enjoying the relative silence of the moment, and the warm aroma of freshly brewed kaffa, poured scalding hot into sturdy mugs and cooling now, just to the point of being drinkable without fear of third-degree burns. Second-degree, they were prepared to risk. 

The Kyrian took his morning cup straight and pure and black, but the Jedi indulged his sweet tooth (the existence of which was a deep, dark secret, known only to a select few, including a cheeky apprentice who occasionally threatened to 'go public' with such a shameful confidence, a weakness which the self-same apprentice frequently referred to as a 'character flaw') by adding generous dollops of Kyrian honey to the dark liquid. 

The two scanned the monitors continually, even though it was entirely unnecessary and illogical for them to do so. Security droids maintained a constant surveillance, on both the imaging system and the individuals it monitored, and were more than ably backed up by an impressive, well-trained staff of security professionals. 

Nevertheless, the Security Chief and the Jedi remained vigilant. 

At that moment, the Crown Princess of Kyri was vigorously toweling her dripping hair, having just emerged from a lovely free-form, tri-level pool complete with bright waterfall and separate sauna, as her companion sprawled in a lounge chair, gorging himself on baqi melon and the contents of a huge pastry tray that appeared to contain every possible type of sweet roll or muffin ever conceived by sentient beings. 

Neither, Qui-Gon had been happy to discover, was nude, despite the earlier reference to 'skinny-dipping', although to observe that the swimwear worn by either left little to the imagination would be an understatement of epic proportions. 

Having completed her attention to her own tresses, Princess Trell moved behind Obi-Wan and proceeded to dry his hair, paying special attention to the padawan braid and was rewarded by having a caroba muffin shoved in her face. 

Which, of course, led to another dip in the pool, this time in pursuit of an Obi-Wan quite beside himself with laughter. 

Qui-Gon Jinn sat in silence, watching the lovely innocence of two who were surely chosen of the gods and felt a heaviness squeeze his heart, both for the destiny that awaited this young, artless girl, and for the loss of innocence that Obi-Wan was sure to face, probably before he got much older. In a way, it was almost miraculous that he had managed to preserve it until now, and the Master thought that it had only been possible because of the intense goodness that lived inside his padawan and reflected darkness away from him, like a bright mirror. 

The ability to see nothing but the good, to have faith in the rightness of one's cause and to believe that right would always prevail, was a wonderful, precious gift that should be protected and nurtured for as long as possible. But it was, ultimately, a transitory quality, destined to fall away from the heart that contained it, as surely as youth falling away from passing years. 

No matter how diligent he was, Qui-Gon knew that he could not preserve this purity that dwelled in his Obi-Wan's consciousness and knew that he would grieve for the loss of something irreplaceable on the day it was finally lost. 

The Master allowed himself a small sigh. "Are we at least granting them the illusion of privacy?" he asked finally, noting that the multitude of angles of the same view showing on the monitors indicated a wealth of cameras, strategically placed. 

Lord Kaffia nodded. "Spy remotes," he replied. "No bigger than my thumbnail, that move like palca-bees and look like them as well. They're made to go unnoticed." 

The Kyrian turned to study the face of the man whom he had known for most of his adult life. "What bothers you, my friend?" 

Qui-Gon smiled. "If I have to tell you what's bothering me, then you're getting too old for this job, and, perhaps, so am I." 

Kaffia's eyes widened while he debated whether to be offended or just to smile and admit that he knew exactly what the Jedi meant. 

In the end, friendship won out. "All right, Qui. Why don't you tell me what you've already figured out, and I'll try to flesh out the rest." 

The Master nodded. "Very well, then. Point A - the threats against the monarchy; these are nothing new. You've had such threats here for years, since before Nemis was crowned. So why are they suddenly a matter of such concern? Point B - when Trell was 'attacked', my padawan, who is very much aware of the guidance of the Living Force, was certain that there was no intent to do serious harm to either her or him among the attackers, even though he wound up seriously injured, through a biological quirk, rather than any real malice. Point C - the bomb in the ballroom. Either your 'anarchists', as Nemis calls them, are incredibly unlucky, or just incredibly inept. The bomb served only one purpose, to seal the exits leading to the terrace. The placement indicated that it was never meant to harm anyone, and I would hazard a guess that the intensity of the blast was as much a surprise to those who set it, as to us. Which would indicate that we're dealing with rank amateurs here." 

The Kyrian had listened quietly, a look of respect and warmth growing steadily in his eyes. 

"And, finally," said the Jedi, "there is the fact that the Force continues to assure me that, though there is much confusion here and a grave threat that is yet unrecognized, there is no cohesive evil intent. Whoever is doing this and whatever they're doing - they mean no real harm to anyone."

Kaffia nodded and smiled. "I'd say you've covered it pretty well." 

"Do you know who is responsible?" 

The Security Chief sighed. "We have suspicions, but nothing definitive. There are several interested parties that might be involved. And you're right, these are not professionals, which has worked to their advantage, in a way. Professional assassins - trained terrorists - tend to act in ways that are somewhat predictable. Not, of course, in the acts themselves, but in their approach to achieving their objectives. What we're dealing with here is totally random. As if someone - somewhere - were sitting around saying, 'OK, that didn't work. Let's try this'." 

Qui-Gon was thoughtful, watching the images of his padawan and the Kyrian princess, who were currently engaged - apparently - in trying to drown each other. "Do we at least know what their objectives might be?" 

Kaffia shook his head. "We don't know anything, but I think we can make a pretty fair guess." 

The Jedi turned to stare at his old friend. "To keep Trell off the throne." 

The Kyrian chuckled. "Why do Jedi always ask questions they already know the answers to?" 

Qui-Gon grinned. "Makes us look omnipotent." 

"In that case, impress me some more, and tell me who's responsible." 

But the Jedi only turned back to study the monitors, before speaking as if thinking out loud. "We have to put together a list of those who don't want the princess to be queen, a list, I would think that would be considered 'politically sensitive'." 

"Not so easy," replied Kaffia, allowing himself a sardonic smile over the delicacy of the Jedi diplomat's phrasing, "since no one would openly admit such a thing." 

Qui-Gon smiled. "Oh, you're wrong about that, my friend. One person admits it freely, even if she doesn't say it in so many words." 

The Kyrian's eyes drifted back to the security monitors. "Trell," he said softly. 

"Trell," echoed the Jedi. 

"Qui-Gon, let's face it. No one in their right mind would really want to be queen of Kyri. It's a life composed entirely of sacrifice and service, but she's been prepared for this from birth. You don't really think . . ." 

"No," replied Qui-Gon, "I don't, but I think she may know more than she's saying. She is concealing something - something ominous." 

The Jedi retrieved his kaffa mug from the console, and inhaled deeply, allowing the soothing steam to aid in clearing his thoughts. 

Kaffia stared at the monitors, concern carved on his features. "The Queen is very determined that Trell will succeed her. She doesn't show it much, but she's absolutely furious that someone should try to interfere with the formal succession." 

Qui-Gon sighed. "Despite the lack, for the moment, of evil intent in all this, I sense great danger, Kaff. I believe I'll take a moment to speak to my padawan . . ." He glanced toward the monitors, where Obi-Wan was, at that moment, allowing himself to be held underwater longer than anyone without Force training could possibly have endured, thus frightening his young companion out of her wits ". . . before he drowns." 

The Kyrian grinned. "In that case, you might remind Her Highness that her betrothed is expected to arrive for mid-day meal, and she is expected to greet him, appropriately dressed for the occasion. The Vilioths are somewhat conservative by nature, and I doubt her intended would be amused by the sight of her wrapped in a couple of scraps of fabric, climbing all over a similarly attired young Jedi." 

Qui-Gon drained his kaffa mug before getting to his feet, pausing before making his exit, to watch more horseplay in the pool. 

"You know," said the Security Chief, gesturing toward the contortions the two were now engaged in, "if anybody had ever described that to me, I'd have said it was completely impossible. Ah, youth! You and I, Old Friend, were never that young." 

 

************** ****************** ****************** 

 

Even at the height of battle - and that was what this pool fight was rapidly becoming - Obi-Wan was instantly aware of the approach of his Master and subdued his opponent by the simple expediency of giving her a Force push that propelled her all the way across the pool. 

Helpless to resist, she was, but quiet about it, she was not. 

"Hey, that is totally, kriffing unfair, Kenobi. Don't you ever . . ." She paused in mid-screech. "Oh, hello, Master Jinn." 

"Your Highness," replied the elder Jedi, managing, somehow, to look completely unperturbed and totally dignified, bowing to a slip of a girl in a slip of a garment. 

Obi-Wan leapt out of the water, and stood before his Master, just waiting. He knew Qui-Gon would not have sought him out, in this setting, unless he had something important to say. 

"Master?" 

Qui-Gon's smile was very gentle. "You are water-logged, padawan mine." 

The boy grinned. "The princess is part fish, I think." 

The smile grew broader. "I'm glad to see you enjoying yourself, Obi-Wan." 

"But?" prompted the apprentice. 

The elder Jedi chuckled softly. "How well you know your Master, my apprentice. Yes, there is a 'but' in all this. Though we still don't know the identity of the guilty parties in this plot, it seems obvious now that the real aim, is to keep Trell off the throne. Obviously, to do that, they need not kill anyone; they just have to make sure she is unavailable at the appointed time." 

"The ceremony can't be delayed?" 

Qui-Gon smiled, gratified when Obi-Wan went straight to the heart of the matter. 

"Hours, only," he answered. "It must take place on the appointed day." 

"So if they can keep her away for the entire day . . ." 

The Master nodded. "Then the crown goes to Maliyah." 

Obi-Wan turned to regard the crown princess, who had pulled herself out of the water by this time, and was downing a tall glass of muja juice. 

"No," said Qui-Gon, very softly, "I don't think so." Obviously, his mind had pursued the question that had just popped into Obi-Wan's head and come to a negative conclusion. "But she knows something, Padawan, and perhaps, if you're very charming, she might decide to tell you what it is." 

"Maybe she doesn't know she knows." 

The Master's eyes widened. "Very perceptive, my young apprentice. If so, you may have to help her discover it. Either way, I want you to do something for me." 

"Of course, Master. Whatever you wish." 

Qui-Gon placed his hands on the warm moist flesh of the boy's shoulders, noting again, for probably the thousandth time, that the apprentice had ignored the need for sunblock, as usual, and peered into those remarkably luminous eyes. He sent soothing pulses of healing energy into the redness that was growing ever deeper on pale gold skin, as he spoke. "There is something of the dark hovering near us, Obi-Wan; something very dangerous, but I can't determine for whom. The disturbance in the Force is very nebulous, as if what will happen is still forming, still subject to random chance. So you must be totally alert, ready for anything. I want you to take an hour and find a quiet corner, in which to meditate. Your facility in the Unified Force is greater than mine, so you may be able to see more clearly. Will you do this for me?" 

"Of course, my Master. Do you think I should go at once?" 

"Oh, I think it can wait a little while, anyway." 

Princess Trell chose that moment to stomp forward, and drape her arm across the apprentice's shoulders. "Tell me," she said firmly, "that you are not going to try to renege on your promise." 

Qui-Gon raised a quizzical eyebrow, as Obi-Wan grinned. 

"There's an old pilots' training facility on the grounds, with a low-G dome." 

"And?" 

The boy's expression was positively evil. "I'm going to teach her how to play low-G dodge ball." 

Qui-Gon blinked, slowly. _Padawan, isn't that the same game that left Garen and Ciara black and blue, for weeks?_

The gleam in Obi-Wan's eyes only grew more intense. _The very same._

_Are you sure you want to do this?_

_Absolutely._

The Master sighed. _You have an obligation to return her in one piece, you know._

_I know, Master, but I never said the one piece wouldn't bear a bruise or two._

_Obi-Wan, I don't . . ._

The apprentice laughed aloud, as he reached out and tugged on a lock of Trell's hair. "Relax, Master, I never break what I can't fix." 

Qui-Gon watched the two walk away - hand in hand - and wondered why that assurance didn't make him feel any better. 

"One hour, Obi-Wan," he called and knew that he would be obeyed, even though the padawan seemed bent on ignoring him. 

 

*************** ****************** ********************

Queen Nemis had been a great beauty in her youth, and the aftermath of her grace and loveliness was still evident in her carriage and, most especially, in the twinkle in her eyes. The Jedi Master observed in silence as she poured herbal tea into porcelain cups as thin as tissue, and realized, suddenly, that she was still a great beauty; it had simply metamorphosed into a more ethereal quality that banked its fires and waited for warm, intimate little moments in which to reveal its still vibrant flame. Like right now, when she was peering at him from beneath lashes still dark and lush, wondering how much he surmised and how much he still had to learn. 

"Are we ready to stop playing games, Your Majesty?" He had decided that only a direct approach would suffice. 

She appeared to debate whether to smile or to frown, which made the smile all the warmer once she'd decided. "Whatever this may or may not be, Master Jinn," she replied archly, "I assure you it is no game. It is, in fact, deadly serious." 

"But you do know who is responsible for this little intrigue, don't you?" 

Nemis was silent for a moment, before rising and moving to a data unit built in to a low cabinet. Once activated, the bright screen scrolled through a series of images, before pausing on one particular image, and adjusting for perfect resolution. 

"Come here, Master Jedi," she said softly, "and tell me what you see." 

The adventures of the princess and the padawan were, it seemed, continuing, in line with the desires of the queen-to-be to experience all the wonders of childhood that she believed she had missed, although both reigning Queen and Jedi Master winced sharply as said royal personage was - literally - knocked flat by the force of a large, plasticene ball, hurled by the young Jedi. In the low gravity environment in which they were playing, she simply bounced off the wall behind her, just in time to catch another powerfully thrown ball, squarely in her face. 

The sound quality of the remote cameras was not quite as satisfactory as the visuals, but it was sufficient to allow the viewers to catch a few words of the dire threats being issued by the princess and the shrieks of laughter from the padawan. 

It was also quite adequate to reveal that the young royal personage had - somewhere along the path of her life - picked up a vocabulary that would have caused dockworkers to blush, and sensitive enough to catch the little murmurs that ensued when, as Obi-Wan caught her out of the air as she caromed off a soft padded wall and was headed toward a not-so-soft and distinctly unpadded doorframe, to the obvious surprise of both of them, she nestled happily against him, slipped her arms around his neck, and rubbed her face against his jaw. 

"It's a shame," she said softly. "We really could have been something, together." 

He grinned broadly. "What do you mean 'could have been'? I think it's safe to say that we are the only princess/padawan low-g dodge ball team in the entire galaxy." 

She grabbed his braid and yanked. "If that's what passes for teamwork among the Jedi, it's amazing any of you have survived." 

The force of her motion, though, quickly set them both atumble in the weakened gravity environment, and both were soon breathless with laughter again. 

"So?" said the Queen. "What do you see?" 

The soft quality of the Jedi Master's expression might have surprised many people who knew him only as the most well-known of the Jedi's stern, serene mediators, but Nemis had long before recognized the gentleness of the man residing within that dispassionate exterior. "I see youth," he answered, "and beauty and innocence." 

"Correct," she replied with a smile, "but incomplete. I see all of that, but I also see the future, Master Qui-Gon. Don't misunderstand me; I have no talent for precognition, but it doesn't take a seer to look at your padawan and understand how rare and gifted he is. Don't you agree?" 

He nodded. "And your granddaughter?" 

She did not answer directly. "There are those, you know, who foretell that the galaxy is approaching a grim era - a time when everything beyond simple survival will become superfluous. Do you subscribe to that theory?" 

Qui-Gon sighed; this conversation was straying dangerously close to metaphysical waters, waters he felt ill-equipped to explore. "There are many omens," he replied, obviously uncomfortable with the admission and the word, "if one puts faith in that sort of thing." 

The Queen chuckled softly. "And I would assume such things would be anathema to one of your pragmatic nature. Correct?" 

He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "It is folly," he said slowly, "to refuse to consider possibilities simply because one does not embrace the discipline that fosters them." 

"Is that a fancy way of saying that you don't put any stock in such 'omens', but, if someone else does, it's all right with you?" 

Now it was his turn to chuckle. "No, that's my way of saying that I tend to ignore that which I can't grasp." 

Nemis was watching the strong young bodies, now engaging in a low-grav wrestling match. "But your padawan grasps it, doesn't he?" 

His eyes were warm and very bright. "Now how did you know that?" 

"I didn't," she answered, nodding toward the monitor. "She did. Have you noticed . . ." 

"That she's telepathic?" he interrupted, with a grin. "It would have been impossible to miss. She's very intense." 

"She most certainly is," she agreed, before turning to face him, her face now grave. "And she's the first of our family to have this gift in ten generations, Master Jedi. It's not something that has been spoken of openly since before my grandmother was born, but it is recorded in our family archives. The first of our family - the original monarch, Dischiam La'Trelle - was made Queen because of this gift. It was considered a blessing from the Mother Goddess." 

"And you see this as some kind of sign?" asked the Master, still very uneasy with the direction the conversation was taking. 

The Queen's smile was gentle. "Like you, Master Jinn, I am a pragmatist. I suspect that most rulers are, having little time for mysticism or metaphysics. But I would be a fool to refuse to see what is happening all around us. The galaxy stands on the cusp of some kind of great upheaval; it requires no gift of prophecy to see this. It's obvious. There is disaffection and distrust everywhere. The criminal cartels grow stronger every day, and there is greed and unrest even within the structure of the Republic. And no one can really determine how or why this is happening, which I find very ominous. Not even the mighty Jedi . . ." - her soft tone took the sting out of her words - "can see where the darkness rises." 

"And how does this concern Trell?" 

"I fear for my world, Master Jedi, and I believe that this child - this radiant, beautiful, gifted child - is our best hope." 

Qui-Gon looked once more at the images on the monitor and hoped very much that the Queen had missed the fact that his padawan had just inadvertently managed to jab the next queen of Kyri in the eye with his elbow, and said slowly, "Who is behind all this? Who does not want her crowned?" 

Nemis moved back to the plush sofa, and retrieved her tea cup. "Understand first," she said, "that there is absolutely no real proof, and, even if there were, you could not use it." 

"But surely . . ." 

But she was adamant. "What I say to you will go no further than this room, Master Jinn. Kyri has been stable for millennia, due, at least in part, to the stability my family has provided. I will not risk a disruption that could have serious aftershocks in our culture. Our symbiotic relationship with the Vilioths, for example, is quite fragile in some ways, so this will not be made public." 

The Master sighed. "Does Maliyah want to be queen so badly, then?" 

Nemis smiled. "Oh, I think she would accept it easily enough, but it's not Maliyah's ambition at work here. The real rascal in all this is he who would be the power behind the throne. The puppet-master, if you will." 

Qui-Gon nodded. "Your grandson, Roque." 

"My beautiful, duplicitous grandson," she agreed, "who is remarkably intelligent, enormously ambitious, and opportunistic to a fault. He has used his very substantial gifts of persuasion and obfuscation to co-opt a willing accomplice." Very briefly, a hooded cynicism flared in her eyes. "All in the name of true love, of course." 

"Obi-Wan mentioned a young man." 

"Yes. Joa'am reGaliph. The son of her royal tutor. I'm afraid we were all rather foolish in not anticipating that their feelings for each other would grow to be more than fraternal." 

"And the threats? The bomb?" 

She smiled. "There are always threats, against any royal family. I expect Roque simply took advantage of the naiveté of some young radical group he met at university. As I believe you pointed out, the placement of the bomb was very revealing. The only way anyone would have been hurt was if they were standing directly in the terrace exits, and the call had just gone out for the dessert table, so it was a pretty safe bet that no one would be." 

"So he's aiming for a bloodless coup," mused the Master. 

Something dark and amorphuos flared in her eyes. "I may be his grandmother, Master Jinn, but I am not so besotted as to believe him incapable of violence. However, in this case, he profits more from pretending to care for Trell's happiness. It's common knowledge among the family that she's hardly thrilled with the prospect of her coronation. But I do not doubt that Roque would be capable of almost anything, to get his way." 

The Master sighed softly. "Then, forgive me, your Majestym but exactly why did you seek Jedi intervention? Given the fact that her safety was not a factor, the wise thing would have been to blanket her with heavy security and simply wait it out." 

Nemis sipped at her tea, regarding him over the rim of her cup with eyes that were very obviously speculating on how far she could trust him. 

Finally, she set her cup aside, having decided that it was time to speak candidly. "I called upon the Jedi," she explained, "because, in this case, discretion is as important as efficiency." 

Qui-Gon settled himself on a plush couch, in a position where he could continue to monitor the actions of his padawan, and smiled. "Why don't you tell me exactly what you want?" 

"I want Trell crowned Queen of Kyri," she said abruptly, firmly, with no uncertainty. "I want proof that Roque is behind this plot - proof that would stand up in a galactic court, if I ever decided to use it; and I want to make absolutely certain that this little conspiracy he's hatched doesn't escalate into something far greater than the sum of its parts." 

The Jedi was quiet for a few minutes, considering her words. "Is there cause to believe there is a possibility of a real revolutionary movement here?" 

"There never has been before," she answered, "but Roque is like a lot of other ambitious immature egotists, Master Jinn; he believes he can manipulate these groups of idealistic young radicals into doing his bidding and control them through the force of his will. But you and I both know that there have been many rebellions that began because of one charismatic young leader, with the best of intentions, making one little misstep. 

"Right now, they're content to follow his lead, because the high romance of it all appeals to their images of themselves as classic young heroes. But all it will take will be one slip; one tragic accident, requiring someone to pay the price for justice, and everything escalates. They think they're playing a harmless little game and stroking their egos at the same time, but this little game could grow deadly, very quickly." 

"So how, finally, do you propose to contain this situation - and make sure there is no escalation?" 

She smiled. "That's your job, Master Jinn. That, and getting me the proof I need. Proof I can use as leverage, to keep my very bright, very precocious young grandchild right where I want him, which is under my thumb permanently. Understood?" 

Qui-Gon rose, and smiled down at her. "You're a very devious woman," he said softly. 

Her eyes were bright with amusement. "Oh, my," she said with a wink, "I do hope so." 

The Jedi grinned. "Now," he said, with just the barest hint of mischief in his eyes, "do you think we should do something about that?" And he nodded toward the monitor screen, where what had begun as a wrestling match had undergone a bit of escalation of its own. 

The two were still fully dressed - well, fully dressed if one ignored the fact that garments tended to twist, and pull, and gap when subjected to certain kinds of twisting and pulling and contorting by the bodies that wore them. And there still seemed to be a competitive element to their actions, as the Princess abruptly shoved the padawan against a padded wall, only to follow immediately with an assault of a slightly different flavor. 

The Queen smiled. "Hormones. Were we ever that young?" 

The Master took her hand, and touched it to his lips. "Somewhere inside we still are." 

Nemis was watching the monitor and tilted her head oddly, obviously trying to follow the course of what was happening on the screen, her eyes widening. "I wish I knew how they can do that. I'd be in bacta for a month." 

The Jedi grinned. "If they keep it up like that, so will they." 

The Queen reached out and activated a remote comm device. "Trell?" she said firmly, trying very hard not to allow any trace of amusement to creep into her voice. 

The girl jerked away from her companion so sharply that Obi-Wan had to grab her to keep her from shooting all the way across the low-g field. "Yes, Matre mal." 

"Your betrothed is due to arrive in an hour. I think it best if you allow yourself ample time for preparation, including a bath." 

Obi-Wan and Trell exchanged grins. "Do you suppose that's her delicate way of telling me I stink?" 

The padawan snickered. "If it's too 'delicate' for you, I can probably . . ." 

She grabbed his padawan braid and yanked, eliciting a distinct yelp. "To you," she whispered, "it should be the sweetest perfume." 

He caught her small hand in his much larger one, and touched it to his lips. "Everything about you," he said softly, "is perfume, a scent that stays in my mind." 

She yanked again. "You-are-so-full-of-it!" 

And he laughed as he pushed away from her. "Go primp for your fiance," he suggested. 

Her eyes widened. "As if he'd care. If I smelled like day-old fish, I'd just fit right in." 

"La'Trelle!" snapped the Queen, suddenly every inch the ruler of a sovereign world. "You will never, never say such a thing again. You are to be queen of all Kyri, and you never insult a race which grants you their loyalty. Never." 

The princess had gone still and white, eyes wide and filled with shadows. "Of course, Matre mal. Forgive me, I wasn't thinking." 

It was a very subdued, suitably chastised young princess who was escorted out of the low-gravity facility and back to the palace proper to prepare for her audience with her betrothed. 

Queen Nemis allowed herself a huge sigh, and looked over at the Jedi Master, who was having some difficulty concealing a completely inappropriate urge to laugh. 

Finally, he chuckled softly. "It is a bit of a shame," he observed, "that such artless honesty must be suppressed, in the name of diplomacy." 

The Kyrian Queen gazed at him with a speculative glint in her eyes. "Have you ever met the Vilioth, Master Jinn?" 

"Haven't had the pleasure," he replied. "It's my understanding that they're very reclusive - shy, perhaps." 

"Oh, no," she answered. "They're not shy, not in the least. Just the opposite, in fact." 

"What do you mean?" 

"The Vilioth are reclusive," she said abruptly, "because they think the rest of us are simply too far beneath them to bother with. To be blunt, they're the most arrogant, rude, obnoxious beings you will ever want to meet, with electric blue tentacles around their heads that snap and pop and exude a particularly unpleasant noxious substance, skin as white and clammy as the belly of a dead fish, and an odor that . . . ." 

"Yes?" 

"Defies description," she concluded finally, "although dead fish is not far off the mark. For sheer, physical unpleasantness, they rival the Hutts." She sighed. "And I have spent my entire life trying not to be repelled by them, physically. The one good thing, of course, is that they are so convinced of their superiority and of their divine right to be served and cared for by the briasta, that they don't trouble us much politically. They consider ruling the planet or anything else which might resemble work to be beneath their dignity." 

The Jedi Master turned to look out into the brilliance of the Kyrian morning, visualizing the delicate loveliness of the princess who would soon be queen. 

"You can certainly understand," said Nemis dryly, "why she might prefer the company of your padawan." 

"You don't exactly paint a pleasant picture of the life she'll be required to live." 

She nodded. "Which is why I refuse to completely ruin these few days for her, in spite of the danger. She has lived her entire life in a little cage - a beautiful little cage - but still a cage. For just a few hours, I want to indulge her desire to run free. Just once, Master Jinn, I want to see her fly." 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a difficult concept to grasp, but it appeared to be absolutely valid. On Kyri, ugliness was illegal, and thus, non-existent. Or, at least, very well hidden. 

Obi-Wan had decided this as he made his way from one small, jewel-like, self-contained garden to the next, in search of the perfect site for his meditation. And when he found it, it felt as if it had been waiting - untouched and unused - for his presence to complete it. 

Frivolous fancy, he knew, but that didn't prevent him from feeling it. 

It was perfect, and he acknowledged the absolute rightness of it when he noted the small plaque affixed to the arched gate, proclaiming the name of this small space - The Arbor of Contemplation. 

Perfect. 

Designed with an attention to the smallest detail, all with the single purpose of allowing an overburdened mind, in retreat from the randomness of life, to shrug off the concerns of the day and simply exist in the moment. 

Perfect. 

No sharp angles or unyielding surfaces; no harsh noises or garish colors. 

Softness under foot, the trickle of a tiny stream falling into a pebbled pool, the sigh of the wind through willowy ornamental grasses, a fragile, cinnamon-like scent that hovered around him as he knelt in drifts of a ground cover that bore tiny, star-shaped blooms of peach and white. Before him, a small icon, hand-carved with great precision, but so old and weathered that it almost appeared to be a natural extension of this place, a likeness of a golden Iberine - the sacred bird of Kyri. 

It was a common motif in Kyrian art, though, sadly, it was no longer commonly found on the planet's surface. 

The encroachment of progress, as had happened on so many worlds, had virtually destroyed the natural habitat of the long-legged, crested avians, and now they were almost extinct. 

The bird seemed to be gazing at him with great anticipation. 

Obi-Wan sighed. The place was perfect. Everything was perfect. 

The meditative trance should have been ridiculously easy to reach. 

Only, it wasn't. And Obi-Wan didn't even try to pretend that he didn't know why. 

He simply could not get that image out of his mind or rid himself of the memory that seemed to be determined to play itself out in an endless feedback loop within his consciousness. 

Not even the memory of his Master's soft admonition was enough to enable him to push everything aside and concentrate on allowing himself to be filled and soothed by the Force. 

For he most definitely did need to be soothed. 

One did not, after all, threaten to thrash the prospective consort of a soon-to-be planetary queen every day. And, as he recalled, 'thrash' had not been his word of choice, being far too civilized for the extent of his rage at that moment. His actual words had been more on the order of "grabbing the Vilioth by a grubby tentacle and beating him to a bloody pulp, until he learned some manners." 

His Master had been justifiably disappointed in his choice of words. He was supposed to be a diplomat and know better than to lose control in such a manner. Yet, he was almost sure he had caught a brief glimpse of something unexpected in Qui-Gon's eyes, something that might have been a tiny wisp of empathy, at the exact moment when the elder Jedi had decided that, sometimes, a hand clasped firmly across a mouth was a more effective tool of diplomacy than any admonition, whispered, shouted, or otherwise; that was also, of course, the moment when he had hauled his padawan out of the room, while said padawan turned bright scarlet with impotent frustration. 

The episode had started amicably enough, but that had been before the arrival of the Faj-maiguer. 

Her Royal Highness, La'Trelle Jignon, had undergone one of her more remarkable transformations in the space of one short hour, changing from a ragamuffin tomboy in cut-offs and torn shirt, to an image of charm and elegance, in drifts of lace-edged, pearl-crusted white chiffon, with strands of opalescent gems woven through her hair. 

Obi-Wan, feeling somewhat drab in his sand-toned Jedi garb, had assumed his place as her primary protector, beside and slightly behind the throne on which she sat and proceeded to dismantle her aura of genteel dignity by reciting a series of colorful limericks, just loud enough for her ears only, pending the arrival of Eluk aBel'isk, Exalted Prince of the Vilioth House of Noble Divinity; Heir to the Obligation of Service; Jewel of Vil-virilia; and Beloved Hand of the Goddess. 

Thus, when the Faj-maiguer stepped into the audience room, it was to find his prospective mate red-faced and tongue-tied with suppressed mirth. 

The Vilioth and the party which accompanied him, which included his grandfather, the official, acknowledged husband of Queen Nemis, were not amused. 

The Prince, resplendent in heavy brocaded fabric that made a strange whirring sound when he moved, drew himself up to his full height, thus achieving a measure that might have reached the level of Qui-Gon's belt, and managed, by contorting his neck into an awkward, hyper-extended position, to stare down the length of his sloping snout, with bulbous, yellowish eyes, to impale the princess with a look that was actively hostile. 

He then proceeded to blot his extremely pale skin, which was dripping with a copious amount of perspiration, with a lace-edged towel provided by a very young personal servant who was almost prostrate at his side, kneeling in a posture of total subjugation. 

And Obi-Wan felt his first twinge of active dislike. If the Vilioth prince chose to attempt to dominate Princess Trell - well, the young Jedi could only wish him luck and hope that he had adequate medical insurance, but the entire persona of the youth who knelt so abjectly at the prince's feet broadcast such complete desolation that the apprentice could hardly force himself to remain still and uninvolved, as befitting a Jedi apprentice. 

_Padawan!_

He heard the warning quite clearly and knew that his lot should have been instant obedience to the unspoken command that accompanied the thought. 

_But, Master . . ._

_I know, my young apprentice, but this is not our immediate concern. Focus, please._

A sigh, not quite suppressed. _Yes, Master._

Prince Eluk's voice, when he deigned to speak, was as harsh and strident as the padawan had somehow known it would be. "Are we to stand then? We have agreed to come here, for the purpose of accepting your homage - a great inconvenience, of course - because we were led to believe that insisting on the traditional forms would invite grave danger to your person. That seems most unlikely, in that we find you here, engaged in banter with this . . . person. Hardly indicative of a perilous situation. But in our willingness to grant you our royal dispensation to break with tradition, we expected, at the very least, that you would appreciate the gravity of our gesture and greet us with courtesy commensurate with our extraordinary graciousness." 

After giving voice to that egregiously outrageous statement, Eluk sniffed loudly and glared at the child crouching at his feet. 

Queen Nemis turned her head and managed a half-wink at Qui-Gon, who was somewhat distracted at that moment, in the necessity of informing his glowering young padawan that referring to the spouse-to-be of a sovereign ruler as a 'pompous, strutting windbag' was hardly acceptable. The Queen, with characteristic grace, rose and moved forward. "Welcome, Honored Guests. We are appropriately appreciative of your grand gesture in coming here to receive the homage that is your due, and we have had quarters prepared for you. You must be weary after your strenuous journey. Would you like to rest for a while? We can delay luncheon until it is convenient for you." 

The Prince's eyes swiveled wildly. "Delay luncheon? Are you mad, Woman? We are faint with hunger already." 

Abruptly, Obi-Wan . . . squirmed; there was no other word for it, and Qui-Gon actually gaped at him. The boy tried to push it out of his thoughts; he really did, but the image had formed in his mind, without his volition, and, like not thinking about the infamous pink elephant, once it had formed, it could not be denied. It was a perfectly clear, detailed image - the Prince, complete with finery, squatting on a giant lily-pad, tentacles glowing neon blue, tongue darting repeatedly into the air, ensnaring big, ugly, winged insects in ropy, glutinous strings of thick saliva. 

And, unfortunately, it was such a vivid picture that Princess Trell snagged it out of his mind with unerring accuracy. 

Qui-Gon, sensing that things were spinning out of control, felt, for perhaps the first time in his life, completely helpless to prevent disaster, as he watched the faces of the two young people turn bright red, in an attempt to suppress the laughter that was screaming inside them. 

But, awkward as the moment was, both proved finally that the training of a lifetime could triumph over any adverse situation - almost. 

Trell rose gracefully and moved forward. "Then, by all means," she suggested, "let's get some lunch. I'm sure we're all too hungry to stand on ceremony." 

Eluk narrowed his bulbous eyes as he stared at the Jedi. "Must they join us? All that brown and drab - they're really quite depressing." 

"They're our protectors," replied Nemis, "and yours, as well. Surely, you don't wish to refuse the services of the Jedi." 

The senior Vilioth personage - Murishk, by name - sniffed disdainfully. "Jedi, humph! Charlatans and tricksters, all." 

Nemis smiled. "Hello, Muri. Charming, as always, I see." 

The elder Vilioth regarded her with jaundiced eyes. "I suppose I should congratulate you, Nemis." 

"For what?" 

"You actually managed to produce an offspring even uglier than you. I wouldn't have believed it possible." 

The Queen chuckled, while making a soothing gesture toward young Kenobi, who looked as if he might just erupt into a steam explosion at any moment. "It's too bad," she replied firmly, "that we can't all be as lovely to behold as you and your beautiful family." 

Despite the awkwardness of the moment, the group prepared to retire to the formal dining salon, where, it was hoped, the quality of the meal - prepared according to the most exacting forms of Vilioth cuisine - would generate an air of greater understanding and amity. And it might even have worked, had random chance not intruded at that moment, to play havoc with carefully laid plans. 

Though Trell had succeeded in camouflaging the rather spectacular bruises that were testimony to the roughness of her morning encounters with the young Jedi, she was still somewhat stiff and slightly less graceful than usual. Thus, when she stepped down from the dais on which her crown sat, she stumbled and grabbed wildly for the nearest support to prevent a full-length sprawl. And, though Obi-Wan leapt forward in an attempt to catch her, it was not his arm that she clenched, but rather, that of the Vilioth prince. 

Who promptly extracted a garish, heavily jeweled dagger from a hidden scabbard beneath his coat, and thrust it toward the princess' throat. Of course, it never got there, being intercepted at the very beginning of the movement by the scintillent blue glow of a Jedi lightsaber; the Vilioth blade promptly dissolved, rather in the manner of butter over a blazing fire. 

It was not exactly pandemonium that erupted from that moment; it was more as if time and circumstance simply froze, as every person in the chamber gaped, and tried to figure out what to do to prevent things from getting any worse. 

Only Eluk seemed unaffected by uncertainty as he proceeded to shriek at a volume almost certain to shatter glass and human ear drums, thought Obi-Wan. "She touched us. She actually touched us. We have never been so insulted. We must demand satisfaction. For someone like that to touch us is beyond pardon. And this - this - creature has destroyed the royal blade. We must . . ." 

Obi-Wan promptly extinguished his blade and stepped back. "My apologies, Sir," he said firmly, "but the Princess' safety is my responsibility, and I couldn't simply stand by and allow you to cut her throat, now could I?" 

He glanced toward Trell and saw a spark of mischief touch her eyes and heard, very clearly, the thought that surfaced in her mind. _Is that the royal 'we', or has he got a friend under that coat?_

The apprentice was forced to bite his lip to keep from smiling, although that was not the reaction the Prince was inviting as he continued to rant. 

"She dared to touch us," hissed the Vilioth, sneering at both the Kyrian princess and her young protector. "She's fortunate to be alive." 

"Yes, of course," said Queen Nemis smoothly, her eyes seeking those of the elder Jedi in mute entreaty. "And perhaps you are also fortunate, Faj-maiguer. Perhaps a substantial addition to your tribute would be sufficient to compensate for the insult. It was, after all, unintentional." 

The Prince stared at her in cold fury. "You don't understand, of course. How could you? We are soiled. We are contaminated. We are . . ." 

"Repulsive," said Obi-Wan, in a completely conversational tone, "and rude and . . . ." 

The rest was lost, fortunately, under the firm pressure of his Master"s hand, which cut him off cold. Thus the Vilioth delegation did not hear the full extent of the threat he felt compelled to deliver, but both Trell, and the Jedi Master got every livid word. 

"Lord Kaffia," intoned Qui-Gon, steering his young protégé toward an exit, "will you see to the safety of the royal family, while I have a talk with my padawan?" He didn't wait for an answer. 

At first, the apprentice resisted the pressure of his Master's hand against his back, until Qui-Gon leaned forward and whispered, "Obi-Wan, you either walk, or I toss you over my shoulder and carry you. Now which is it to be?" 

Obi-Wan felt anger flare within him - molten and stinging - but he nevertheless allowed himself to be steered, even though but he wasn't completely compliant. His posture was stiff and wooden, as he craned his neck to look back to meet the lavender eyes of the Kyrian princess, eyes filled with consternation and shock, with trepidation and concern, and - in the briefest, tiniest of twinkles - with loving gratitude. 

"Padawan," said Qui-Gon, sensing the rage that was rising within the boy, as they moved from the audience room, through the hallway, and out into the entry garden, "are you actually going to resist me physically, or is this little personal rebellion quite finished?" 

Obi-Wan went cold with shock. "Rebellion? It wasn't . . ." 

The Master spun the boy abruptly and forced him to look up and meet the firm resolve in his eyes. "Then what would you call it, my young apprentice?" 

"Master, you can't defend what that . . . " 

"I defend nothing, Obi-Wan, but it's immaterial. Your rebellion was against me." 

"No, Master, I would never . . ." 

Qui-Gon held the boy's gaze and allowed just a trace of his own disappointment to show in his eyes. "Never what, Padawan? Never defy me? Never disobey me?" 

Abruptly, Obi-Wan shivered and found himself stricken speechless. He looked down and seemed to see a pit of unrelenting blackness opening before him as he acknowledged the wave of anger that battered against his personal shielding. For a moment, he stood once more amid the chaos of Melida/Daan, tasting the ashes of his life, consumed in the raging flames of fury and passion. The time elapsed between then and now was not so great that he had forgotten the desolation that had claimed his soul at that darkest moment of his life. 

"I believe," continued the Master gently, "you just did both." 

He did not dispute it, did not argue. It mattered not in the least that such behavior toward his Master had never been his intention. The only thing that mattered was the end result. 

Obi-Wan went to his knees, partially to indicate his willingness to accept whatever discipline Qui-Gon might deep appropriate and partially because he found that his legs would no longer support him, so devastated was he by the realization of what he had done. 

"Forgive me, My Master," he whispered, clutching the hem of Qui-Gon's robe with fingers gone rigid and bloodless. "I was willful and . . ." Words failed him, and he choked suddenly on the bitterness of his tears. 

Qui-Gon was silent for a moment, staring down at the youthful vision at his feet. A shaft of pure golden light chose that exact moment to filter through the foliage overhead and pour like liquid amber on the figure kneeling in such abject misery, and the Master fought down an urge to simply stand and drink in the lovely purity of the image. How wondrous it was that this child had absolutely no conception of what an unbelievable blessing he had been in his Master's life! For Qui-Gon allowed himself no delusions in this area; in his radiant innocence and with his single-minded devotion, Obi-Wan had restored his Master's sanity, and more than that - his very soul. Of this, there was no doubt. And the only person within the Jedi Temple hierarchy who didn't know it was Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

"Rise, my padawan," he said softly, running a gentle hand through spikes of red-gold softness. 

But Obi-Wan, characteristically, was too horrified by what he considered his betrayal to accept pardon so easily, and only sank forward to press his forehead to the ground. "Oh, Force, Master, I'm so sorry. I didn't think . . ." 

Qui-Gon leaned over and lifted the youth to his feet. "Exactly, my padawan. You didn't think. Now, shall we put this behind us and . . ." 

"No," said the boy vehemently. "You shouldn't just let this go, Master. I deserve to be punished. Maybe then I can get it through my thick head so it doesn't happen again. You should . . ." 

Genuinely curious, the Master laid his hands on his padawan's shoulders, and peered into his eyes. "And how would you have me punish you, my apprentice?" 

"I don't know. Extra chores. Extra katas. Extra work. More assignments." 

"Seems rather excessive for a momentary lapse," said the Master mildly. 

"No, it's . . ." 

"On the other hand, I could just beat the mischief out of you." 

Obi-Wan gasped slightly, then raised his head to return his Master's steady gaze. "Perhaps you should. Nothing else seems to work." 

Massive hands moved suddenly to brace the boy's face, as midnight eyes darkened with something that might have been pain. "My Obi-Wan," said the Master softly, "do you honestly believe that I could ever harm you physically?" 

The apprentice lowered his eyes, unable to accept the tenderness he saw in Qui-Gon's face. "You should be shouting in anger," he said softly. "I don't deserve . . ." 

The hands on his face tightened abruptly." Don't say it. I don't ever want to hear you say that again. What you deserve, my padawan, is everything that it is in my power to give you. Don't you understand that I could never give you any punishment which would hurt you half as much as you hurt yourself. You will make mistakes, Obi-Wan; you will never be perfect. None of us is perfect, but you - you are a miracle, Padawan mine, and I want you to remember that." 

There was still a shadow of uncertainty in the boy's face, but Qui-Gon knew when to step away, and allow his apprentice to find his way through the labyrinth of his confusion, back out into the light of reason. 

"Now," said the Master, allowing a small glimmer of amusement to rise in his eyes, "I believe you owe me an hour of meditation. Unless, of course, you prefer to go back into the palace to visit with the Vilioths." 

Obi-Wan suppressed a shudder. "Is it okay if I say I'd rather take a swim in a nest of gundarks?" 

Qui-Gon laughed and lightly tugged on his padawan's braid. "It's perfectly okay, my apprentice, as long as you say it very, very softly." 

 

*************** ****************** *************** 

 

Time to let it all go, he knew. It all seemed petty and trivial now, unworthy of notice, except . . . 

No, he would put the exceptions aside too. It hardly mattered to the Force that he found it impossible to understand how any creature - no matter how cretinous - could treat someone as lovely and honest as Trell with such contempt. 

The Force, after all, held no living thing in contempt; it resided as surely within the hearts of the Vilioth as within his own, and he must not be repelled by that thought. 

He opened his eyes, and noted that the afternoon had taken on a golden quality, as if the light of the sun had been filtered through waves of Kyrian honey, and he noticed that lovely trills of birdsong had risen to ride the crest of the wind. A shadow - small and fleeting - touched him, and he raised his eyes to peer into the honeyed azure bowl of the sky. Something circled there, very high, too far to distinguish details, but very graceful, spinning and diving in the currents of air. 

When he looked down again, the Iberine seemed to be staring at him, so he chose to use the icon as his focal point. 

And the easy submersion into the currents of the Force which had, up until this moment, eluded him, was suddenly exactly as he had known it should be. He felt his awareness of his body slip away, as awareness of his spirit and all that it encompassed swelled and blossomed within him.

For a while, there was nothing but the lovely harmony of the Force, welcoming him, touching him, stroking his mind with warmth and tranquility. Then, slowly, he began to perceive patterns of light and darkness - shifting, dancing in an unseen wind, still soothing, but becoming more and more determined to reach into his consciousness. 

It all came to him slowly - faces, thoughts, bits of knowledge, emotions that were not his own: sweet hungers, darker cravings, the heavy, cloying taste of conspiracy, the tartness of random chance, the bittersweet bite of loneliness. 

He no longer needed to seek answers; he had only to ask the right questions. 

In a landscape composed of scraps of memory and bits of reality, he was suddenly aware of being watched, and - within his mind - he opened his eyes, and saw the Iberine, closer now, and warm with life, a creature of infinite grace and beauty, with its caramel colored feathers and crest of deep mahogany, and eyes - eyes that should have been like drops of amber - but were not. Somehow, the eyes of the bird were a rich, deep lavender, the color of the evening sky just before sunset. And the eyes flashed almost silver as the bird leapt away and lifted into the golden sunlight. 

He didn't know then - would never know - why he suddenly surged to his feet, crying out for the graceful bird to return, to abdicate its place in the heavens to find serenity and peace among the dirtbound. 

But, of course, that was not in the nature of birds, as he well knew. Birds were created to fly, to soar into infinity and weave their spirits into the wonders of the sky. 

The Iberine flew ever higher, becoming smaller and smaller, until it was no more than a spot of darkness against brilliant blue. 

Obi-Wan sighed, and fell back to his knees, his heart pounding suddenly. 

He heard it, before he saw it, heard the sharp whistling sound it made as it sundered the air with its passage. 

He did not - could not - watch, and, when he finally raised his head, it was done. The exquisitely beautiful creature was nowhere to be seen in the twisted, broken mass of bloody feathers and cartilage that had impacted the ground so hard it had created its own little crater. 

Obi-Wan reached out with trembling hands and felt something stab into his mind - something freezing cold and boiling hot and full up with darkness. 

_You should learn not to meddle in what doesn't concern you, Boy._

It was a voice where none should be, where none had ever been, except that of his Master. A voice that cut into him like the stroke of a scythe - oily, heavy, reeking of something rampant and primordial. _Learn now that he cannot help you, when I command your consciousness, sweet, brave little padawan. One day, perhaps, we will meet face to face, and I will claim what should have been mine from the beginning._

Obi-Wan gasped and came out of his meditative fugue sobbing, only to find himself clasped tight in his Master's arms. 

With a huge sigh of relief, the padawan allowed himself to be held and comforted as he fought to regain his composure. 

"Tell me, Padawan," said his Master softly, once his apprentice had grown calm. 

Obi-Wan tried to center himself, to rid his voice of the panic that had almost consumed him, but knew he was only partially successful. 

"They don't know what they're doing, Master," he said, still breathing heavily. "They think it's all just a game, but there's more. They don't see it. It hides itself from them, but it's here. It's waiting for the first mistake, the right moment. It's waiting." 

"What, Obi-Wan? What's waiting?" 

The padawan's eyes were caught by a slight movement in a pool of shadows near the arbor, and he was transfixed to realize that the form he could barely see in the gloom beneath the low-growing trees was, indeed, an Iberine - unbloodied, sound, perfect, for the moment. He almost smiled when he remembered what Trell had told him. To see one of the rare birds was considered a good omen. 

"Obi-Wan," prompted Qui-Gon, his concern for his padawan causing a sharpness in his voice. "What is waiting?" 

"The darkness, Master," sighed the boy. "It's here, and it's hungry." 

 

******************* ***************** ****************

It was the hauntingly beautiful end of a hauntingly beautiful day, with lengthening shadows carving deep, sharp silhouettes into the bright fields that stepped down from the palace to the expanse of the bay in carefully cultivated terraces. The air was still warm, and redolent with the scent of blossoms nestling into the first pale trace of twilight. 

After an afternoon spent in the strenuous pursuit of childlike pleasures, the Kyrian crown princess and her Jedi protector had found their way to a rooftop terrace, atop the physical training facility, six floors above a meticulously laid-out parade square, designed for military reviews and formal saber-rattling, according to the queen-to-be. They had then agreed that a brief respite was in order, and settled down to take advantage of what Trell promised would be a spectacular view of the sea at sunset. The day was inexorably drawing to its close; both were reluctant to see it end. 

A perfect day - well - almost. 

Obi-Wan stretched out on a padded lounge chair, and shaded his eyes against the strong, deeply slanting rays of Kyri's white dwarf sun, watching the first mists of evening rise on the horizon. Idly, he lifted his glass of fermented muja juice, icy cold and dewed with condensation against the warmth of the air, and touched it against his jawline, relishing the exquisite chill against the heat of his skin. 

A bright chuckle was the only warning he got, as his glass was grabbed from his hand, and a lovely, bouncing weight settled somewhere between being beside him and being in his lap. 

"Here," said that laughing voice, "let me." 

And Princess Trell proceeded to bathe his face with the icy moisture of the glass and to pour small dribbles of the juice into his mouth. 

"Trell," he said softly, almost choking, "this is not a good idea." 

Carefully, she put his glass on a nearby table, and eased up until she sat fully in his lap, her arms wrapped around his throat. 

"I think," she replied gently, "that it's a perfect idea, my Obi. A perfect moment to end a perfect day. Do you have any idea what you've done for me today?" 

He reached up and touched a bright azure bruise high on her cheekbone. "Beat you black and blue?" he asked, grinning broadly. 

She grabbed his ears and pinched, hard. "Aside from that." 

He opened his mouth to reply in kind - bright, sassy, brittle - but read the tenderness in her eyes instead, and changed his mind. "Why don't you tell me what you think I did for you today?" His voice was infinitely gentle. 

She touched his lips with hers, light as a puff of summer wind. "You gave me my memories - the ones to take with me into a life that won't allow me to make many more that are worth keeping for a very long time. I'll never forget this - or you. You showed me what it's like to be a normal person, a normal child. You showed me how to climb a tree, and how to break my fall without breaking my neck. How to run and play and stumble and exhilarate in the moment; how to get knocked down and get up laughing; all the things a child does without thinking, and that I was never allowed to do. And you never once backed off because I'm Princess Trell. In my entire life, no one ever looked at me and talked to me and treated me like you did - like a girl with feelings and hopes and dislikes. You even defended me against the Vilioth, even though you knew it would get you in trouble; it never even crossed your mind that I was raised to accept those insults, and just ignore the wounds and deal with them, like some kind of droid, without the capacity to feel hurt. But they did hurt, and you knew it and refused to stand for it. I don't even know how to make you understand what you gave me today." 

He smiled, and noted the reflections of deepening shadows had darkened her eyes to the color of polished amethyst. "You make a wonderful playmate," he said gently, as he laid his fingertips on a rather spectacular bruise on her forearm, and focused a pulse of healing Force energy into the damaged tissue. Trell's face reflected a sense of wonder and something more, as the ugly mark faded to nothingness. 

She took one of his hands between her two, and interlaced their fingers. "Is this . . ." 

He waited, but she seemed uncertain if she should continue. 

"Is this what?" he prompted. 

She took a deep breath, and gazed straight into his eyes. "Is this what it feels like to fall in love?" 

Obi-Wan, for a moment, was lost in the luminous beauty of her face. "I don't know what it feels like to fall in love," he answered finally, raising their clasped hands to his lips. "I only know that I don't want to leave you. I don't want you to . . ." 

She lowered her head, avoiding his gaze. "Be queen?" she breathed. 

He felt abruptly as if his heart had paused in its steady beat. "You know," he said softly, "don't you?" 

"Don't be silly. How could I know . . . " 

With a gentle forefinger, he tipped her face up until she was forced to look at him. "Because you feel it, just as I do. You can't prove anything, but you know." 

Her skin was suddenly flushed and warm. "I only know that some people who care about me, very much, wish that I didn't have to accept the crown. They care for _me_ , Obi-Wan. They do it for _me_." 

"And you," he said finally. "What do you want?" 

She hesitated, looking up into his eyes, looking for the emotion beneath the surface. "Right now," she replied, "I just want this moment - this day - to last forever. I want to stay here, with you. I want us." 

He kissed her then - a slow, sweet, lingering kiss, aching with need and poignancy. 

When he pulled back, she sighed. "Not going to happen, is it?" 

He smiled. "Why ask the question when you already know the answer?" 

"It's really not fair. Why must we be bound to duty, when others are free to choose?" 

He shrugged slightly. "We choose. We just happen to choose to do our duty. You're the crown princess of Kyri; I'm Jedi. Even love doesn't change who we are." 

A warm glow rose in her eyes. "Then you do love me?" 

He was slow to respond. "I think," he said finally, "I could learn to." 

She laughed softly. "I think I'll take that as a 'yes'." 

Abruptly, his eyes seemed to darken. "Trell," he said slowly, "there's much more happening here than some boyish pranks and romantic posturing. You must be mindful of the moment." 

"Ooooh," she teased, "first you hold me in your arms. Then you go intensely, incredibly Jedi on me. Be still, my heart." 

"I'm not joking," he insisted. "I need to know you'll follow my lead if anything happens. Otherwise, I can't protect you." 

Something in his voice finally cut through the banter, and convinced her to pay attention. "You worry too much," she answered finally, but without rancor. "And of course, I'll do whatever you tell me, should the need arise. Good enough?" 

For the space of a heartbeat, Obi-Wan heard an echo within him, an echo of a bleak, chilling voice, speaking of desolation and agony. 

He suppressed a shudder, and smiled. "Absolutely. We are, after all, completely unique in the galaxy, as the only Kyrian royalty/Jedi low-gravity dodgeball team in the history of the Republic." 

She laughed. "If a team consists of one abuser and one abusee, you're absolutely correct." 

"Well, well, well," said a smug, urbane voice from behind them, "look what we found - the princess and her pet-for-a-day." 

Trell's deep breath was heavy with annoyance. "Haven't you got anything better to do than sneak up on people, Roque?" 

The royal cousin snickered. "Well, if you weren't so lost, gazing soulfully into each other's eyes, I wouldn't have been able to sneak up on you." 

Obi-Wan looked at Roque with thinly-veiled suspicion. "You didn't." 

Roque laughed. "I beg to differ, Little Jedi." 

Obi-Wan nodded slightly, closed his eyes, and recited, "You've been standing just around the corner of the entrance tower, in the shade of a spirio tree, for the past four and a half minutes, trying to overhear what we were saying, most of which was inaudible to you. While you were waiting, you placed a comm call, and you're waiting for the arrival of several acquaintances." He opened his eyes, and impaled Roque with a hard stare. "Correct?" 

Though the young Kyrian's bored façade of indifference would have been sufficient to conceal his discomfiture from non-Force users, it was transparent to the Jedi. Roque violently disliked being transparent, to anyone, and Obi-Wan, very discreetly, began to probe to determine why. 

"Nice trick," said the royal cousin coldly, immediately becoming more animated as he spotted new arrivals coming their way. 

He turned to face Trell with a smug smile. "I hope you'll forgive me, your highness, for taking the liberty of arranging one more fun-filled activity, to top off your day, so to speak." 

The princess, telepathic sensitivity in full function and completely aware of Obi-Wan's misgivings, simply stared at him, allowing the hauteur of her rank to demand further explanation. 

Roque shrugged. "Once upon a time, you loved to play Pejoli Conflict," he said, "and the best Pejoli Spiral in the complex is right here." He gestured toward the odd configuration of geometric shapes painted on the slightly raised platform that covered half the surface of the broad terrace. 

Even though Obi-Wan was not looking her way, he felt the intense spike of enthusiasm in her mind. 

"Pejoli?" he echoed. 

"Oh, Obi-Wan," she cried, "You'll adore it. I don't know why I didn't think of it. It's perfect." 

"Maybe," said Roque smugly, "you didn't think of it, because you never actually got a chance to play it. It was always deemed 'too physical' for your dainty little body." 

"Just how physical are we talking?" asked the Jedi. 

The cousin snickered. "Well, probably not nearly as 'hands-on' as where you two were headed when I arrived, but . . ." 

"You know," interrupted the Princess, "I sometimes wonder how a family as classy as ours managed to produce such a complete ass, Roque." 

But the princeling remained unperturbed. "Just lucky, I guess." 

"Don't worry, Obi," said Trell. "You might have to work your magic with a few more bruises, but nobody ever died playing Pejoli." 

Obi-Wan stood and was surprised by a fleeting sensation of vertigo, as he turned to greet the new arrivals. 

Of the eleven individuals who were hurrying toward them, the young Jedi had already met eight, and recognized the others - all young, eager, all old friends of the princess. None overtly threatening; all apparently exactly what they appeared to be, and yet, there was something. Something that was just a fraction too intense, too jovial. Something almost artificial. 

Among them was Joa'am, who, of them all, was the only one not brimming with enthusiasm and good will. Obi-Wan observed briefly that this particular young Kyrian should never aim for a career on the stage; he projected his true feelings in the most brilliant colors of the spectrum, obvious for all to see. 

And, of course, it was Joa'am who stepped forward to present the necessary equipment for Trell - equipment which consisted of some thick, armored padding, a bulbous helmet, and a long, semi-flexible staff, padded on either end. "If I may, Your Highness," he said softly, moving forward to help her don the upper-body pads. 

"No," she said quickly, taking the gear from him and passing it to Obi-Wan. There was mute apology in her face as she moved away from her childhood friend, and looked to the Jedi. "Obi-Wan, would you help me with this?" 

"Of course," he replied, his voice warm with sympathy. He didn't know if Joa'am understood the message she had just transmitted, but he certainly did. For him and for her, duty would always take precedence over whatever their hearts might desire. 

Joa'am simply stood, unmoving - perhaps unable to move - and stared at the young woman who would, by tomorrow at this time, be his sovereign queen. In torn and faded work-out clothing, she hardly looked the part, but it was in her eyes, and Obi-Wan, glancing toward the young man to gauge his mental and emotional state, thought he saw some evidence of awareness dawning in the boy's eyes. 

Sometimes, thought the young Jedi, when a person wanted something beyond all reason, it became almost impossible to view anything objectively. Thus, he thought, it was conceivable that Joa'am had convinced himself that the princess would welcome any attempt to allow her to elude her destiny, because it would have comforted him to believe it. 

If so, the realization of the truth of the matter - that Trell, no matter what her daydreams might be, would allow no one to interfere with her intention to fulfill her duty - would be exceedingly painful to accept. 

Which would account for the haunting emptiness evident now in the young Kyrian's eyes. 

It was only at Roque's repeated prodding that Joa'am seemed to throw off the lethargy that seemed to grip him, and prepare - absently - for the game. 

When Trell had been suitably padded, strapped, and geared, she and Roque moved to return the favor, for Obi-Wan. 

"This" said the cousin, with a gesture toward Obi-Wan's lightsaber, "has got to go. It's completely impossible to wear this on the spiral." 

"In that case," said Obi-Wan firmly, "I don't go on the spiral, and neither does Princess Trell." 

Roque narrowed his eyes and lowered his head to try to cover an ugly flush. "Oh, very well, but I hope it won't turn itself on or anything, or you might just lose a leg. Or worse, cut off someone else's." 

Obi-Wan was completely serene. "It only cuts off legs when I tell it to." 

Roque's nostrils flared briefly, but he said nothing - aloud. Under his breath, however, he muttered continuously, and Obi-Wan heard a distinct reference to barbarian louts. The padawan allowed himself a small smile, and was further delighted to pick up on Roque's spike of annoyance. 

The game, Pejoli, was remarkably simple in its most elemental form, involved a double helix arena, with bands of bright blue and brilliant red coiling around each other, marked off at intervals with polished, mirrored spheres; two teams - each allowed to touch only the color of its home spiral, with the bright balls denoting neutral bases, and use of the padded staffs to both attack and defend - to dislodge opponents from their territory while managing to avoid being dislodged from one's own, and to vault from one area to another. 

Within a remarkably short period of time, Obi-Wan had come to realize that the supposedly simple little game could quickly become tremendously complex, requiring intricate strategy, seamless teamwork, strenuous physical effort, and some measure of good luck just to compete. 

Since he and Trell were teammates, playing against both Roque and Joa'am, Obi-Wan had begun to develop a certain enthusiasm for the game, especially its more physical aspects. This was particularly true when a sharp upswing with his staff managed to take Roque completely off his feet and deposit him some two meters away, completely off the spiral, resulting in a penalty assessment for the red team. 

Trell was applauding and shouting her approval when chaos descended upon them without warning. In the first flurry of blaster bolts, five of the players on the spiral went down under the devastating effects of a heavy stun setting. 

Cursing himself for failing to detect the approach of the masked figures now pouring out of each of the two entrances to the terrace, Obi-Wan thrust Trell behind him as his lightsaber automatically moved, as if of its own volition, to deflect the incoming bolts. 

_Master!_

He didn't bother with anything more, knowing Qui-Gon would hear and understand and come running. 

Already, there were a dozen assailants on the terrace, with more arriving at every moment, and the apprentice felt the first stirring of unease. He could continue deflecting the weapons fire all night, if necessary, but, with so much destructive energy flying around, the risk of some accidental injury grew ever greater. 

"We'll take her," came a cry from his left, and he spared a moment to see Roque, with Joa'am at his side, dart forward to grab at Trell's arm. 

"I don't think so," replied the young Jedi, sounding remarkably calm for someone engaged in the firefight of his life. And he calmly redirected the next two stun bolts squarely into the chests of the two so bent on removing the princess from his protection. 

As both sank into unconsciousness, he read disbelief on their faces and felt the sorrow in Trell's thoughts. 

_Sorry, no time for subtlety,_ he sent to her and was grateful to note that her sadness was untouched by anger. 

And still more attackers arrived, and Obi-Wan took a moment to review the lay-out of the terrace in his mind's eye. He needed shelter for the princess, while he took out their attackers - a place he could be sure she would not be vulnerable to attack from another angle. 

And finally, forcing himself to examine things from a bird's eye view, he saw it; it was not perfect, but it would suffice for a brief period. 

"Trell," he said softly, continuing the brilliant maneuvers of his lightsaber, "I need you to listen to me very carefully, and do what I tell you." 

"Okay." 

"Stay behind me, but begin to move back towards the edge. When we get near the railing, look over the side. I think there's a roof projection below us that covers a balcony on the next floor down. If there is, I want you to swing yourself over the edge and drop onto that roof and stay there until I come for you. Can you do that?" 

She spared a moment to look at him as if he had lost his mind; had he, she wondered, failed to notice that he was single-handedly fighting off an attack by twenty-odd assailants? And now he wanted to know if she could drop to a protected position and wait for him? Was the boy completely insane? 

But she said none of that, contenting herself with a hurried, "I can." 

"Good girl. Now move!" 

Because of the intensity of the weapons fire, it went more slowly than he would have preferred, but they did, finally, reach the edge, and he heaved a huge sigh of relief as Trell reported, "You were right. It's there." 

He continued to deflect the blasts, allowing himself to sink further now into the Force, now that his arms were beginning to tire slightly, but there was no danger. The Force - mercifully - never tired. 

"Get down there," he instructed, "and stay down." 

Amazingly, in the midst of pandemonium, he felt her lean forward and plant a kiss on the nape of his neck. "My hero," she said softly and rolled herself over the edge as calmly and fearlessly as if she took such plunges on a daily basis. Kyri, thought Obi-Wan, was going to have a hell of a Queen. 

The Force was strong in young Kenobi as the light faded from the sky, tinting it to the soft lavender so striking in the eyes of a young girl; he moved with a fluid grace and purpose that he had never quite managed before, and time seemed almost to suspend itself, to pull back from his consciousness, to allow him to restructure it to the cadence of his own heart rhythm. 

He had never felt so alive or so in tune with the energy that sang around him. 

In the end, there was only one flaw in the grand design of the moment. 

Random chance - the element that can never be predicted or prevented. The despoiler of elemental symphonies. 

Qui-Gon was only moments away; Obi-Wan sensed his approach, and knew the ordeal was nearing its end. The actinic cerulean brilliance of his saber continued to weave its intricate pattern, deflecting the bolts of scintillant energy back toward the assailants; a few had already succumbed to the ricochet of their own fire. 

As the blue saber lifted to repel twin bolts from a pair of attackers huddling within one doorway, a beam intersected the bright saber's path at the level of Obi-Wan's shoulder, rebounded to a small, mirrored ball at the edge of the Pejoli court, and deflected again, to ricochet off the polished surface of a vertical support and disappear over the edge of the roof. 

Obi-Wan went to his knees, feeling the impact as clearly as if it had been his body that was struck and slammed backward, resisting the scream that rose in his throat, twisting violently, throwing himself forward over the edge of the roof and sensing a sudden, strange flex in his grasp of the Force, plunging downward, but restrained at the very last minute by a huge grasping hand. And still he struggled, reaching - reaching . . .

Reaching nothing - for there was nothing to reach. He hung over the edge of the roof, and stared. Down past the roof projection where a graceful figure should have waited for him to come for her, but didn't. Down past all the balconies now crowded with people who had heard the scream and come out to find its source. Down past horrified faces and wide, staring eyes. 

Down to the rock garden that spread out below the building. 

Down to the sprawled figure, the one that looked like a tiny, grotesquely shaped little doll. The one twisted into a position that no living human being could have duplicated. 

And then Obi-Wan was going down as well - down into darkness. Down where nothing could touch him, except the loving voice of his Master, easing him into the gentle oblivion of sleep. 

 

******************* *************** ******************

Kyri, a pastel world. Full of illumination and grace and lyrical music. Blessed with affluence and culture and an appreciation of finer pleasures. 

Kyri. 

Where light had been pure and radiant, almost blinding in its intensity. 

Kyri. 

Where light was dying. 

Appropriately, he thought. 

There should be no light where innocence was forfeit to the grasp of greed and the flaws of arrogance. 

He was on his knees in the tiny, walled garden, cloistered, sheltered, safe from prying eyes, hungry eyes - eyes gleaming scarlet with fury and more, empty with the question. 

The question. 

The one for which there was no answer, no matter who was asking. 

Why? 

He couldn't remember how long he had been there - hours, certainly. Days, maybe. Since his Master had left him there in the garden, with the gentle admonition to remain out of sight, out of mind. 

His Master had been forced to go out among all those wounded faces that were so avid for answers, to deal with the aftermath. 

What a sterile, bloodless way to express an all too bloody reality! 

His Master was cleaning up the mess he - the padawan - had left in his wake. The mistake - the broken, twisted, mangled body that had once been a lovely, delicate young woman, who had wanted - just once - to spread her wings and fly. But she had not flown, for her Jedi protector had failed to provide her with the wind to lift her. Instead she had plummeted to her death, while he, in his arrogance, had strutted and prided himself on his superiority. 

His arrogance had cost her life, and now he could only sit and try to part the veils that seemed to swirl around him. There was no Force - no insight - no vision to reach for. There was darkness, wherever he looked. 

He could not meditate; could not concentrate. 

He couldn't even cry - not any more. He was no more now than a dried husk, without substance, without purpose. And he wasn't even sure that he minded so very much, if only he could also be without memory. 

"You gave me my memories." Those were the words she had spoken to him, just minutes before all memory was taken from her forever. 

And now the memories were his - burned indelibly into his mind: the slow motion replay of her fall, the realization rising in her eyes, and, worst of all by far, the words that had been there in his mind, unrecognized until it was too late. Unnoticed until he had fought his way out of the sleep into which his Master had sent him. 

_Good-bye, my Jedi. It wasn't meant to be._

But he knew better; knew that, even as she plunged to her death, she had sought to spare him, to absolve him of responsibility. But she had not understood; could not have understood, for she had not been Jedi. There was no absolution, no excuse, no defense or justification that would release him from the shackles of his guilt. 

She had been his responsibility, and she was dead. No extenuating circumstances would change that bleak fact. 

It had been the deepest hour of night when he had awakened and refused to allow his Master to send him back into the warmth of slumber, although, in truth, all he had wanted - then and now - was to lose himself in the nothingness of sleep and never awaken. The pain had been like a living thing within him, with vicious, sharp teeth and claws, reducing his spirit to a shredded, mangled mass, as bloodied and misshapen as her poor body had been; but that was past now. It seemed there was nothing left within him but infinite reaches of ice - empty of life or breath or hope. 

Vaguely, he noted that the darkness before him seemed to be thinning as some still functional part of his consciousness noted the sounds of an arrival. He was no longer alone, but there was no recognition within his mind. Nor was there any interest. He simply didn't care who had come to him or for what purpose. He had wondered earlier, for one brief moment, if the royal guards of the Kyrian Justice System would come for him - he did, after all, expect to be held accountable for his crime - but he had not pursued the thought beyond its inception. When they came, he would go with them and accept whatever form of punishment they deemed appropriate. He wondered if he would even notice very much, as it seemed he was virtually incapable of noticing very much of anything right now. 

A warm breath of air swirled around him, and he felt something light and soft settle over his body and only then did he realize that his flesh was chilled and clammy to the touch. 

"By all the little gods, Obi-Wan," rumbled that basso voice that had been his anchor to reality for most of his life, "are you trying to make yourself sick?" 

The apprentice merely sighed, and refused to meet his Master's eyes. He found that there was just the slightest little bit of feeling left within him, after all - just one tiny part of his heart that was not filled with icy numbness; the part that didn't want to face Qui-Gon's disappointment in his padawan's failure. 

"Obi-Wan?" 

No choice. When the Master spoke in that stern tone of voice, the apprentice was compelled to respond. "Yes, Master." 

"We must prepare to depart, within the hour. Can you get your things together, or do you need . . ." 

"I can do it, Master, but surely I can't leave like this. Surely . . ." 

"Surely what, Padawan?" Qui-Gon could hardly have failed to notice the tremors that still gripped the boy's body or the rawness of his voice or the fact that he had yet to meet his Master's eyes. The elder Jedi was almost overwhelmed by the ache that swelled in his heart and by the desire to spare this child the torment he was enduring. But he knew, in the final analysis, that this was something Obi-Wan must deal with. The Master could - and would - help him find his way through the ordeal, but could not take the journey for him. 

A staggering swell of pride and affection rushed through Qui-Gon's heart as his apprentice took a deep breath, and said, "Surely I must be brought to justice, Master. I'm responsible for the death of Kyri's crown princess, and that demands that I be bound over to Kyrian authorities." 

"You've been banished, Obi-Wan, by order of the Queen." The Jedi Master spoke slowly, waiting for his padawan's reaction. "We must leave immediately, and you may never return here. And a formal protest will be filed with both the Jedi Council and the Senate." 

Now the sea-change eyes did blink abruptly and rise to confront the voice and face of authority, total incredulity reflected in their stormy depths. "A reprimand. You're talking about a reprimand. Is that it? Is that the price for the life of a young woman?" 

"Calm yourself, Padawan. We will discuss this fully, once we are on board our courier. But for now, we must hurry." 

Obi-Wan drew a deep, shaky breath. "No," he said, not as firmly as he'd have liked, but clear enough. "I won't go. I won't run away from my responsibility." 

"What did you say?" 

"I won't go, Master," said the boy, calmer now. More determined. "Her life . . ." He paused, fighting to breathe again. "Her life should count for more than a slap on the hand on my Jedi record. I won't allow this to . . ." 

"You will allow," Qui-Gon said abruptly, "what I tell you to allow, Padawan. And right now, I'm telling you to get your things together, to prepare to get on the ship." 

And he knew immediately that it wasn't going to be that easy, when he saw the angry flush rise in the youth's face. "I can't do that, Master. I will . . ." 

Qui-Gon raised both hands in a gesture meant to stop the disagreement in its tracks, and it worked - momentarily. "Obi-Wan, there is no time to debate this. You're going to have to trust me here. There are things you don't understand, and I'll explain them to you fully, once we're on board the transport." 

"I've always trusted you, my Master," Obi-Wan replied, "but this isn't about you. This is about me, and what I did, and . . . " 

The boy stopped in mid-sentence, eyes almost bulging as he stared into his Master's eyes, dark now as thunderclouds. He was abruptly aware that he had never before seen the elder Jedi in the grip of a rage so extreme that it threatened to overwhelm the legendary Jinn self-control. It was a sobering prospect. 

"Now, listen to me, you impudent little brat," Qui-Gon said through clenched teeth, as he hauled the boy to his feet with no trace of his characteristic gentleness, "you are my padawan learner, and everything you do is about both of us - not just yourself - and you will not defy me in this. Now I know that you are perfectly capable of managing to drag your feet long enough to be taken by the local constabulary and dragged off to the local dungeon for a punishment you think you deserve, but that isn't going to happen. You will understand, once we're away from this place, that what happened here wasn't your fault, but until then, you will do what I tell you, and you will do it now. Is that clear?" 

"But, Master . . ." 

"So help me, Obi-Wan, if you argue with me, I'm going to pick you up and carry you to the ship and lock you in, for good measure. Now. Do you understand me?" 

The apprentice swallowed loudly. "Yes, Master." 

_But you're wrong. It was entirely my fault._

Qui-Gon heard the thought quite clearly but chose to ignore it for the moment. It would take more than generic reassurances to make a dent in that bastion of guilt, and it would have to wait until there was more time. 

Except for one tiny tendril of reassurance, which was always a good idea, he thought. 

_I love you, child of my heart, and the formidable Master Qui-Gon Jinn is never wrong._

But the very old, very tired private joke failed to provoke the desired response this time. The boy was simply too wounded to even remember that - someday - he would be able to laugh again. 

 

*************** ***************** ****************** 

 

They made it to their ship without any real problems, but the day was dawning dark and threatening, matching the attitude of the crowds gathered beyond the palace walls. 

The word had spread quickly during the night and without great concern for accuracy. Little or no mention had been made in press reports of the existence or identity of those who planned and carried out the assaults against the princess. On the other hand, the name and image of her protector - who had failed so spectacularly - had been displayed on page one of every tabloid. 

The people of Kyri would not soon forget the name of Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

He was, undoubtedly, an object of hatred and scorn and contempt from the masses. 

And he agreed with them completely. 

At one point during their hurried passage to the waiting transport, they were forced to pass within sight of one of the main gates of the compound, where a sullen crowd had gathered, and stood motionless in the pre-dawn twilight. 

It was one of very few times in his life when Qui-Gon knew a moment of regret that Jedi were so easily recognizable, as the crowd stirred itself to near frenzy at the sight of the familiar brown and cream garments. 

The gates were force-shielded, of course, and the sentries standing watch in guard posts would do their duty or answer to their Queen should they fail to do so, but Qui-Gon knew a minute of near-panic as he saw his student pause under the onslaught of jeers and taunts and veer toward the gate, as if drawn there. The Master hadn't bothered to try dissuasion; he had simply grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and, with a combination of the strength of his own increasing annoyance and a hefty burst of Force enhancement, tossed him toward the waiting boarding ramp of their ship. 

For his part, Obi-Wan simply looked confused, almost as if he could not quite remember where he was, or where he was supposed to be. The Master wondered if the trauma the boy had endured might have triggered some kind of psychic shock and resolved to watch him more closely. Thus, he had escorted the padawan to the tiny cabin designated for his use and persuaded him to lie down for a short while, at least until they were ready for departure, and, when he exited the cabin, he encrypted a new security code in the door mechanism and activated it. Now, unless there was an emergency requiring evacuation of that section, the apprentice was effectively locked down. 

The Master then allowed himself a moment to heave a sigh of relief. He knew his padawan well enough to be absolutely sure that they had - thus far - managed to dodge a very large bullet. As a Jedi apprentice, the boy was very nearly flawless - brilliant, innovative, devoted, loyal, soaking up instruction like a sponge, and generous to a fault - but there was one very glaring problem. One of his best friends - one with whom he had grown up in the crèche - had once said it best. "Obi-Wan never met a guilt he didn't want to adopt and take home with him." 

Qui-Gon had, at one time, believed that this tendency, which had the potential to develop into something very dangerous and destructive, had resulted from his own obtuse refusal to accept the boy for padawan training when first offered the chance to do so, but Ciara Barosse - friend of Obi's childhood - had once observed that it had existed long before that time; that it had, in fact, been part of the problem that created the hostility and desperation within the boy's persona that had frightened Qui-Gon away during that initial contact. 

The Master had hoped that his own final acceptance of the boy and his delight in his padawan's progress would have been sufficient to resolve the issue. 

Qui-Gon sighed. It was, it seemed, time to go back to the drawing board. 

He moved to the cockpit and began preflight preparations, but, despite his earlier sense of urgency, he didn't rush. For one thing, though he was proficient in all manner of interstellar flight vehicles, flying - for him - was a chore, not a product of instinct, as it was for his padawan. 

Drawing again from memories of remarks made by friends of his apprentice, he recalled Garen Muln once observing that machines just seemed to like Obi and want to make him smile. 

The Master frowned abruptly. Actually, that wasn't exactly what the brash young padawan had said, and the comment had not been intended for Masterful ears, resulting in bright red faces among the rowdy bunch when they'd realized that their somewhat off-color repartee had not gone unheard. 

At any rate, the Master did not rely on instinct or rote behavior in doing flight prep; he was very by-the-book, very methodical, which tended to drive his padawan to distraction. Obi-Wan, however, had the luxury of being the type of natural mechanic who could probably mend a balky hyperdrive with a ball of string and a wad of gum; his Master, on the other hand, would have required the services of a full spacedock. 

Qui-Gon smiled gently. Just one more way in which the student had surpassed the teacher. He wondered briefly if Obi-Wan had any idea how much the Master sometimes learned from the padawan. 

He squinted through the paristeel canopy, and noted the shadows growing ever sharper in the onslaught of morning and checked the chronometer for the fourth time in ten minutes. 

He had promised he would wait, and he would. But he would not risk his padawan's safety, not even for the conscience of a queen. 

She had best hurry. 

 

*************** ************* ******************* 

 

The private quarters of His Royal Highness, Prince Roque of Kyri, were quite sumptuous, even by royal standards. This was because Roque - quite shamelessly - was a confessed hedonist. The prince enjoyed his pleasures enormously, and if they were of a slightly less than legal persuasion, he enjoyed them even more. 

Indulged all his life, he had never had the problem of finding a way to afford his vices until recently. For the scion of the royal house had discovered, just within the last cycle, that there were, after all, limits to the royal purse. Roque, due to deficit spending that would have embarrassed some small nations, had, in effect, been put on an annual allowance. Which he had spent within a matter of weeks. 

When he had gone to his mother - and then his grandmother - and thrown himself on their mercies, he had, of course, been bailed out. He was, after all, the only prince of Kyri. But the bail out had been provisional. It would not happen again and subsequent audits of his financial affairs by meddling officials of the Court had led him to believe that he must find an alternative source of funding. 

A difficult proposition, he found, when one had no skills, no particular intellectual gifts, and no work ethic. 

It had taken him no more than a few days to find the only real asset that he did, in fact, possess: an older sister, second in line for the Kyrian throne. 

In point of fact, Roque had been wrong; he did have one exceedingly clever, even marketable skill. Roque was a master of intrigue, and it was completely instinctual. 

Within a very short period of time, he had put together his master plan to put his sister on the throne; had enlisted the aid of several young, impressionable groups, from romantics who wished to see the course of true love run smooth, through anarchists who simply disagreed with everything official on general principles. 

And then had come the stroke of random chance, the stroke of good fortune. 

He had been beside himself with contentment when contacted by the shadowy figure who wished only to aid him in his quest to dispel the old order and install the new. Wasn't it time, suggested his new tactical adviser, that Kyri lifted itself out of the doldrums of tired old tradition and embraced a new galactic order. Matriarchies, after all, had proven unreliable, over the long haul. History was rife with examples. 

Besides, to rule such a disparate populace as that of Kyri, a firm hand was required. Preferably, a firm, masculine hand. 

Oh, it had all been so glorious. 

Roque bolted through the door of his quarters, and slammed it behind him, simultaneously sweeping a group of very expensive kemucite water bulbs from a table near the door. The sound they made as they smashed into powdery fragments was imminently satisfying to him, but not nearly enough. 

Without hesitation, he picked up a cabochol paperweight and hurled it at a Alderaanian quartz sculpture; both were reduced to razor-edged shards. 

"What now?" shouted Roque, his rage so extreme that veins bulged at his temples.  
"What do I do now?" 

He stalked through the crystalline waste that was strewn across a priceless Malastairian hand-loomed carpet, and activated a private comm system that was concealed within a sealed compartment of his desk. 

The image which formed on the brushed leather surface was dim, and swathed in a heavy, black cape. "Yes, yes. What is it,now? I am exceedingly busy." 

"She's dead," spat the prince. "It all went wrong, and she's dead, and they know I did it. That fool, Joa'am, told them everything when he saw that she was dead, and all the personal guards who helped us confessed as well. What do I do now?" 

"Calm yourself at once," said the oily voice, hardly bothering to conceal the contempt in the tone. "Obviously, you haven't been imprisoned. Has the Queen revealed her plans for you?" 

Roque threw himself onto his bed and sneered. "We must not weaken the image of the monarchy," he mimicked. "So I'm to consider myself as ransom for my actions. If I behave myself, nothing more will be done. The Jedi will take the blame." 

"Excellent," replied the holo-image, a venal smile visible beneath the cape. "So why are you whining?" 

"Because I'm being held hostage," he spat. "And because this wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to get hurt." 

"Oh, how very sad," the voice taunted. "Poor little prince found out that it's not just fun and games when you dabble in restructuring the rule of worlds. Well, wake up, Boy. You don't make an omelet without cracking the fiorno eggs." 

"But . . ." 

"Spare me your puerile complaints. You got what you wanted, if not quite the way you wanted it. Your sister will be queen, will she not?" 

"She'll be crowned today," admitted Roque grudgingly. 

"Then stop moping, and prepare to do your duty. Kyri needs a king - not a weak, puling woman who'll be ruled by her heart. Can you handle that, Boy, or should we look elsewhere for a more suitable candidate?" 

"No," said the prince, surging to his feet, "I can do it. I'll prove it to you." 

"And you will, of course, remember who your friends were when you needed them, won't you?" 

Abruptly, Roque felt something heavy and cold stir within his consciousness - something that drove him to his knees - without regard for the razor-like slivers of broken glass strewn across the carpet. 

"Of course, My Lord. I will remember." 

"And the Jedi? What's to be done with him?" The hooded figure's smile grew broader and more menacing. 

"He's been exiled, Lord." 

Rage flared in eyes the color of flawed citrines. "Exiled? That's an outrage." 

"I agree, Lord, but my grandmother is still the Queen until this evening. I argued otherwise, but . . ." 

A sharply raised hand silenced the continuing whine. "So once again, the little whelp escapes unscathed. A charmed life, that one leads - one who should have been mine to mold many, many years ago." 

"My Lord?" The prince was growing more confused by the moment. 

The black-swathed figure straightened abruptly. "It matters little. There will be other opportunities. In the meanwhile, do not fail me again, young prince. I am not known for my forgiving nature." 

Roque sank lower before the dark vision, his breath catching in his throat. "Yes, My Lord Sidious. I will see that your wishes are carried out. You can depend on me." 

The Dark Lord's smile was the last visible trace of the hologram, and Roque wrapped his arms tightly around himself, and rocked silently on the glass-strewn floor, heedless of the sting of a hundred tiny slashes and the trails of blood they generated. 

By the goddess, what had he done? 

 

*************** ******************** *************** 

 

The Jedi Master was slightly apprehensive when he entered the lock code for Obi-Wan's quarters and spared a moment to smile at the ludicrous aspect of his attitude. When, he wondered, had he granted his apprentice sufficient power over him to engender trepidation. 

But his unease proved to be groundless, as Obi-Wan lay exactly as his Master had left him, sprawled face-down across his bank, his head pillowed on his forearm. 

The Master moved closer and stood staring down at the boy, his heart aching for the youth's obvious pain. For he had been wrong; there was one difference. Tracks of copious tears were still obvious on that frozen young face. 

Gently, Qui-Gon sat on the edge of the thin mattress, and, with a touch lighter than a whisper, using only his fingertips, began to rub soft circles on the boy's back, gently infusing healing warmth with his touch. Obi-Wan sighed and snuggled deeper into the nest of bedding. 

"Padawan," said the Master, regretting the necessity for disturbing the boy's rest. 

"Ummm, wan' sleep," mumbled Obi-Wan. 

"I know you do, but I must ask you to wake up. A visitor will arrive shortly to speak to you." 

One blue-green eye, shot with red, opened marginally. "Thought you were in a hurry. We're not moving." 

"In a hurry to get on board," explained Qui-Gon, "but we can't depart quite yet." 

The boy rolled to his back, rubbing his face with one tremulous hand. "So who wants to see me? A firing squad? Executioner? Suicide bomber?" 

"Actually, she's a Kyrian priestess. Very highly placed." 

A definite look of suspicion distorted the boy's features. "Maybe they need a volunteer for a human sacrifice." 

Qui-Gon quickly stifled a smile. He thought if he was lucky enough to spend a century in the company of this bright young soul, he might finally get tired of the droll sense of humor. 

"Get up, Padawan Mine, and make yourself presentable. It's not every day you meet a member of a divine sisterhood." 

 

************** **************** ************** 

 

When Obi-Wan made his way to the cockpit and plopped into the pilot's seat, Qui-Gon allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Waves of grief and misery were still sheeting off his padawan in massive tides, but at least he was beginning to function. His hands moved without the necessity for conscious thought as he did his own preflight check. 

"Disengage the shields, Padawan. Our guests have arrived." 

The main cabin of the little courier ship was barely large enough to accommodate the two Jedi and the new arrivals, both of whom were swathed crown to toe in voluminous robes and veils. Following his Master's lead, Obi-Wan bowed from the waist as the two began to divest themselves of layers of clothing. 

It was amazing, he thought, how many layers there were. There must be some sort of prohibition against the priestess revealing any glimpse of flesh in public. 

Actually, as it happened, the explanation for the cover-up was much simpler, as he realized as the last scarf was unwrapped from the face of the smaller of the two visitors. 

Obi-Wan felt his heart freeze in his chest, and went bonelessly to his knees, then fell forward, his forehead touching the floor at the feet of the Queen of Kyri. "I have no words, Your Majesty," he said, in a voice that was almost a sob, "to tell you the depth of my regret for your grief. I would gladly have given my own life to spare hers, as I would give it to bring her back. I don't know how you can stand to look at me." 

And, to his endless astonishment, he felt her kneel beside him, and enfold him in her arms. "Hush, Child," she crooned gently. "Do you think me such a fool that I don't know what really happened on that roof?" 

He shook his head. "She was under my protection, and I failed her and you." 

Gently, she forced him to raise his head to look into her eyes. "Obi-Wan," she said firmly, "your Master and I both reviewed the spy cam tapes of what happened. You did everything possible and a few things that I would have thought impossible, to protect her. It simply was not meant to be." 

"No," he whispered, "I won't accept that. That can't be." 

The second of the two visitors - Lord Kaffia, once he was unswathed - knelt beside his queen, and regarded the boy with warm sympathy. "You must understand, Obi-Wan, that we are sometimes forced to do things out of political expediency that we don't want to do. This is a critical time for Kyri, and there may be dark times ahead. In order to prevent political chaos, we had to allow the press to proceed under false assumptions; the general population knows nothing of the conspiracy, and they must not know. Not yet, anyway. The coronation of Maliyah must go forward without delay, or we could be facing pandemonium all over the planet. I hope you can forgive us for this deception, and for the ramifications it may have, even beyond Kyri." 

Tears brimmed in the boy's eyes. "You're asking me for forgiveness?" he said softly. "How could you even think of such a thing? Don't you understand!" 

He rose and started to pace, in the manner of a man who must move or explode where he stands. "It was my fault. I tried to catch her, and I couldn't. I use the Force to levitate things - big things and small, things much bigger than Trell - every day of my life, and I couldn't catch her. Why couldn't I catch her?" 

Qui-Gon moved quickly to grasp his padawan and force him to stand still and look up into his Master's eyes. "For the same reason," he said, "that I couldn't." 

"What?" Obi-Wan was obviously stunned. "No, you weren't there. You were . ." 

"Close enough, Padawan. Close enough to catch you, and to see the end of her fall, but I couldn't stop it either." 

The apprentice's eyes were suddenly huge and empty. "But there's nothing you can't do, in the Force, Master. What could have . . ." 

"I don't know, Obi-Wan," whispered the elder Jedi. "I don't know what it was, but, for just a moment, it was as if something simply stepped between us, and blocked us from the power we needed to use. Something . . ." 

They looked at each other and spoke simultaneously, "Dark." 

For a moment, a great stillness seemed to grip them all, a lethargy that was filled with foreboding and menace. 

It was Nemis who was first to break from it, as she stepped forward and placed a small cylinder in Obi-Wan's hand. "This was to be your gift from my granddaughter, Obi-Wan. She wanted you to have it, and so do I. From this day forward, I will never be able to greet you publicly or acknowledge our debt to you, but I hope you will always know that you will forever have a place in my heart. For a little while, you made her happy, and I will be forever grateful for that." 

"Please don't," he sighed. "I can't accept . . . " 

"For me," she begged, "and for Trell. Please." 

Obi-Wan raised tear-filled eyes to his Master, asking and receiving permission. 

Nemis took his face in her hands, as her eyes welled and she pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. "The two of you were so beautiful together," she murmured. "Those images will remain with me forever, to comfort me in the darkness that lies ahead. Go with the love of the Great Mother, Child. My prayers are with you always." 

Obi-Wan found himself unable to speak, his fingers clasped white-knuckle tight around the slender golden cylinder. 

The Kyrians rewrapped themselves quickly and were gone, and the padawan lost no time in hurrying into the cockpit, completing the preflight check, and lifting off. 

Soon Kyri was nothing more than a blue and white sphere disappearing rapidly into an ocean of stars. 

The cylinder was still clasped tight in his hand. 

He set the nav-computer with appropriate co-ordinates before sitting back in his chair, and turning to face his Master, who had been watching him from the moment he had plunged into the cockpit. 

"Auto-pilot, engage," said Qui-Gon, heaving a deep sigh. 

"It's all right, Master," said the apprentice quietly. "You get some rest. I'll pilot." It was not, after all, a great sacrifice for him. He found that the time spent in flight between the stars was frequently a time of great relaxation for him and a time when he found the Force as close and touchable as a great, warm blanket he could wrap around him. 

Qui-Gon rose. "No, Obi-Wan. There's something we must discuss first. Then you can decide what you want to do. Come with me, please." 

When Qui-Gon spread meditation mats beside one of the observation ports, Obi-Wan felt a small smile tug at his lips as he sank gratefully to his knees. He knew he needed to meditate, knew that he had been unable to do so since . . .since . . . He swallowed and tried again, and found that he couldn't say it. 

"Obi-Wan, look at me," said Qui-Gon, his voice soft, almost hypnotic. "I want you to focus on me and follow my guidance." 

"Yes, Master." 

"I want you to go back to the rooftop, Obi-Wan." 

The panic flared bright red in his consciousness. 

"Yes, you can do this," insisted the Master, still very calm. "You must do this, my padawan. I'm right beside you. Go back to the rooftop and watch." 

And suddenly he was there, and he was seeing it all, but not from his own perspective. From someplace else, through someone else's eyes. He saw himself, saw what he had done and - finally - what he had failed to do. 

Tears welled afresh, and he was suddenly unable to breathe. 

And Qui-Gon was there, as he was always there, holding him, keeping him safe, forcing him to draw oxygen into starved lungs, not allowing him to fall. 

When he would have pulled away - to reassert his independence - the Master simply held on and refused to release him. "Now tell me," said Qui-Gon, very gently, "what did you do wrong?" 

"I didn't block that bolt." 

"Yes, you did." 

"Yes, but it hit her anyway. I should have blocked it away." 

"It was beyond your reach, Obi-Wan, and if you had moved to block that one, others would have gotten through." 

"But I should have . . ." 

Qui-Gon sighed. "I want you to listen to me, my padawan, because this is important. All right?" 

"Yes, Master." 

"I reviewed the tapes, Obi-Wan. So did Kaffia and the Queen. Do you trust me?" 

"Of course I trust you, Master. How can you ask me that?" 

"Have I ever lied to you?" 

"Of course not." 

"Then you must accept that I would not lie to you now. You must believe what I tell you. There was no way for you to prevent what happened. It was beyond your power." 

"But . . ." 

"No buts, Obi-Wan." 

"But she's still dead. If I . . ." 

"Yes, she is," said the Master, once more rubbing gentle circles on the boy's back. "And it was, apparently, meant to be. I had hoped you would be older when this happened, my Obi-Wan. It's a terrible thing to have to learn, no matter how old you are. But more terrible when you're so young." 

"I don't understand," murmured the apprentice. 

Qui-Gon drew back, and made sure Obi-Wan was looking straight into his eyes. "You did everything right, Obi-Wan. Everything. You made no mistakes, and you still lost. And it will happen again in your life - and again - and again. The lesson is futility, my padawan. Sometimes, no matter how right you are, things will still turn out wrong, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. 

"Other times, you will make mistakes; we are Jedi - not gods. You will sometimes be wrong, and it will be costly. It may even cost lives, and that's a terrible burden to bear, a burden that must be shared by all Jedi. To be Jedi is not to never fail; it's to find the strength and the will to go on, even after you've failed. It's a part of who we are, and what we are, and I know that you're strong enough to take on that burden. Do you understand, Padawan?" 

Tears brimmed again, and the boy dissolved in silent sobs. "She was so beautiful," he whispered, "and I think I . . ." 

"I know, Little One," soothed the Master. "And yes, she was very beautiful, and the Queen was right. The two of you together were exquisite. I know you will miss her and mourn for her, and I will mourn with you. But you must release the guilt, Obi-Wan, for it's not yours to bear. Her death was caused by those who used violence to get what they wanted, not by the young Jedi to whom she seemed ready to give her heart. To honor her, you must do this." 

For a while, the apprentice was silent, deep in thought. Finally, he heaved a deep sigh. "Will it hurt this bad every time?" 

Qui-Gon reached forward to adjust the padawan braid. "Every single time, Padawan Mine. I wish I could tell you otherwise." 

They sat for a while in companionable silence, each taking comfort from the other's presence, and gradually drifted into the easy near-somnolence of light meditation. Qui-Gon, very discreetly, stretched out with his Force sense to gauge his student's emotional status, and was forced to suppress a gasp of sympathy as he felt the rawness of the boy's pain. This wound would be slow to heal, but it would heal. Of course, it would leave a large, permanent scar, as such heart wounds always did. 

He opened his eyes and studied Obi-Wan's features as the boy slipped deeper into his contemplative trance. 

There were new lines at the corners of his eyes, and a vertical furrow between them, a mark of residual tension and unease. 

And there was something else - something less tangible, harder to define. A certain stiffness in the line of the jaw and the set of the sculpted lips. 

It would have been unnoticeable to anyone who did not know him intimately, but the Master knew this child as few ever would, and he recognized it immediately for what it was: the loss of another piece of the boy's innocence. Obi-Wan was growing up, faster than his Master had anticipated, and was being forced, by time and circumstance, to leave his childhood behind him. It was inevitable; it was as it was meant to be; and it was the most heartbreaking thing Qui-Gon had ever seen. 

Gently, he reached out and, with a deft twitch of Force energy, smoothed the crease from his padawan's brow, smiling when the boy opened his eyes. 

"You haven't opened your gift," he pointed out, glancing at the cylinder still clutched in Obi-Wan's fingers. "Would you prefer to be alone to do so?" 

The apprentice sighed. "No, Master. I'd rather you stayed. I just don't think I should . . ." 

"Whatever it is," said the elder Jedi firmly, "she wanted you to have. Will you deny her final wish?" 

Obi-Wan looked at the slender cylinder - really looked at it, for the first time - and saw that it was quite lovely, in itself, composed of a polished golden metal, etched with a tracery of vines, with a clasp of carved stone. 

He almost dropped it when he disengaged the clasp and a holo-image formed around it; an image of a moment he remembered perfectly well, when he and Trell had been floundering in the pool, intent on drowning each other. In the image, she was caught after leaping up to bear him over backwards in the water, and they were laughing into each other's eyes. 

The image blurred as he felt more tears forming, and he withdrew from the cylinder a tiny scroll of what seemed to be real paper - a rarity in a galaxy where virtually everything since time out of mind had been recorded on computer chips and where many beings had never even bothered to learn to write. 

He felt the gentle comfort of his Master's hand on his shoulder as he unrolled the tiny parchment, and wiped his eyes, in order to read the lines written there. 

 

_I know that duty lies in wait_  
_And in this moment we may not stay,_  
_But we take with us one certainty_  
_That we loved and were loved, for one day._

_You frown too much, my Jedi.  
When you remember me, laugh for us both. _

 

He sat in silence - stunned, wounded, lost - but suddenly infused with a faint vein of hope. 

Not today, he said to her, as her face formed in his mind. Today is not for laughing. But someday, I promise. I'll laugh for you again. 

And as his tears welled and flowed again, he felt something iced and frozen within him begin to thaw - to respond - to live again. Thus, when his Master reached out and enfolded him in a gentle embrace, he allowed himself to be held and comforted. 

The healing process - slow and painful as it would certainly be - had begun. 

 

FINIS


End file.
